The Space Between
by Fever Dream
Summary: After their brief romance, Marian Hawke and Fenris try to salvage their friendship. Kirkwall is never kind, however, and the worst struggle is yet to come, as Hawke loses everything and becomes a slave to bitterness. Has magic truly spoiled everything?
1. Hightown Blues

It had been raining all day in Kirkwall, the kind of downpour that turned the city's crooked staircases into waterfalls and made the descent from Hightown to the city's less opulent neighbourhoods particularly treacherous. The smell of rain, especially cold rain on sooty streets, and the way it left the Estates soft and hazy through the window panes, blurring grey mansion into grey sky, had always made Marian Hawke a little nostalgic for Ferelden. Days like these were rare in Kirkwall and she intended to take full advantage of the excuse to laze around in her most comfortable robe and keep all the hearths blazing.

She'd just curled up in a winged chair by the fireside and had started sorting through a heavy pile of correspondence when she heard a firm knock at the door, two taps precisely measured and no more. She was able to guess the identity of her visitor from only this, since few others were so formal or circled around her privacy so carefully. In weather like this, Varric or Isabella would've picked the lock and walked right in, whereas she would have heard Merrill having a long bumbling dialogue with the door, consulting it on whether she should've brought a gift or if it was better to use the knocker or to tap with her knuckles, or if it was the wrong time to call and she should have waited 'til they met for Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man.

Setting aside her letters, Marian rushed for the gilt mirror in the main hall, trying to salvage her appearance as best she could. Taking its cue from the rain, her long dark hair had gone wavy at the ends and she was unsure whether she liked this effect or if it didn't make her look the least bit frazzled. It was too late to change her clothes, but she licked her dry lips to give them the appearance of moisture and tried Mother's old trick of pinching her cheeks to give them some colour, a ploy that she had rebelled against when it had first been suggested as a means of impressing a noble suitor.

"Bodahn, would you please..." She stopped short, remembering that it was his day off, although Maker knew where he and Sandal had gone in this weather.

"Mother?" There was no answer from her mother, who was likely upstairs and would not be pleased to be dragged down from her chambers in order to answer the door. The visitor in question would no doubt sour her mood even more.

Marian would have to greet the caller herself and by Andraste's grace, if she didn't hurry up about it, he'd have gone on his way already or been half-drowned in the downpour. Still, she felt some misgivings as she rushed to the vestibule and unfastened the numerous locks on the weighty door that guarded the manor's main entrance. In an ideal world, her next meeting with the man who'd reached into her chest, torn out her heart and handed it back, still bloody and throbbing (mind you, he'd done all this on a purely symbolic level, although he was unnervingly capable of managing it on a literal one) would involve her looking dazzling and brilliant, surrounded by other men vying for her attention. She had already planned what she would wear for this occasion and the attitude she would assume, which would be one of bemusement and scarcely concealed pity ("Oh, you were too foolish to love me when you had the chance? Well, I shall be very sorry to see you suffer bitter regret..."). Unfortunately, it was rather difficult to assume this attitude when she was not strolling around the Hanged Man in her finest, buoyed up by the silly hangers-on who actually heeded Varric's tall tales. Alone, on this rainy afternoon, in her chilly cave of a house, she could not pretend to be the wise-cracking heroine of her own epic adventure and all her defences seemed weak and childish.

Marian pulled open the door and saw Fenris, as she'd surmised, stooped at the bottom of her porch, his back turned to her. Hearing the door open behind him, he stood and faced her, his expression of abject misery matching the weather so perfectly that she was tempted to laugh, which she knew would have offended his dignity.

Instead, biting her lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood, she mastered herself enough to manage civility. "Hello Fenris. Would you like to come in? I don't imagine you've been enjoying the rain?"

He brushed aside the wet hair dripping into his face and mounted the damp stairs with the cringing, haughty disdain of a drenched cat. "No. Not at all."

_Well, aren't you a little beam of sunshine_, she thought. _Perhaps, dear Fenris, if you didn't have such a marked aversion to boots, you wouldn't have to step barefoot in puddles._

Inside the house, his mood seemed to improve a little, although he seemed acutely aware that his soaked hair was plastered to his forehead and that his feet were leaving wet toe-prints on the hardwood floors. He tried to rub these away with his heels but only succeeded in creating longer smudges.

"I'll get you a blanket," she said, if only to stop his awkward shuffling. "You'll want to dry off."

Marian had no idea how he'd managed to get so wet in the distance between their two houses. Had he decided to go for a swim in the enormous puddle out of front of the Dupuis mansion?

"A gracious offer," he said, "but there is no need."

She walked off to the linen closet anyway, enjoying the chance to be a good host in spite of him. She'd heard of the phrase, "Cruel to be kind," before, but she had never contemplated the possibility of being kind to be cruel. Perhaps it took a personality like Fenris' to bring that out in someone, that cold, unyielding pride of his and an absolute refusal to understand compassion as anything but pity. It occurred to her that she might savour being 'charitable' to him, that indeed, it might be the best vengeance she could ever take, since he seemed so set on this display of stony self-sufficiency.

She handed him a shabby woollen blanket, one she'd often thrown over her makeshift bunk on cold nights in Gamlen's shack. It'd served her well on the ship voyage from Ferelden and when they'd moved into the new house she'd refused to part with it, believing that to throw it away would be akin to betraying a dear friend who'd grown grey and weary.

She observed Fenris' reaction carefully when she gave it to him, watching for a curled lip, a flared nostril, any sign of scorn, but he took it gratefully and without protest, wrapping it around his shoulders. The blanket looked funny draped over his spiked shoulder-plates and she wondered if any of the sharp metal spires might poke through the fabric.

He seemed faintly conscious of this himself and adjusted the blanket to sit a little lower. "I, uh, wish to return a few valuables you'd been kind enough to lend me."

She feigned confusion. "Kind? Lend? You must be mistaking me for someone else. I charge interest."

Fenris answered this with a raspy chuckle that seemed to hail more from nervousness than any appreciation of her wit. Reaching down, he passed her two books that he'd tucked under his arm, perhaps the only items on his person that were still dry. When he put them in her hands, their fingers touched, a reminder of the way he'd stroked them across her breasts, the plane of her stomach, sculpting over her hip and the indent of her waist, just before he'd reached across the bed, seizing her and drawing her back to him...

Marian blinked, breath tightening in her chest, and she saw his lips twitch into the trace of a smile. Had he entertained the same remembrance or did it simply please him to know that he'd affected her, that she wouldn't be able to look at him for a long time without the itch to have his hands upon her or the yearning to be overpowered by that unexpected strength? Perhaps she'd be best to walk out into the rain herself. It might have the effect of a cold shower.

She looked at the books he'd returned to her, relieved to see that neither of them was "A Hundred and One Uses for a Root Tuber", which Isabella had so thoughtfully placed on her shelf at eye-level. In fact, she was surprised to see that one of them was a history of the Amell family, which she certainly had not recommended to him.

"Thank you," she said, pressing the books to her chest. "I'd hardly missed these great distinguish-looking tomes lying around, collecting dust. I hope they weren't too tedious?"

"No. What I managed to get through, anyway."

Fenris dug into the side pocket of his belt and handed her a bag of coin. As he raised his arm, she noticed her favour still tied around his wrist, the red silk scarf that she'd once used to tied back her hair. Had he forgotten it was there? She wasn't about to ask for it back, although she had thought it pretty. It was even prettier, of course, when it was adorning him, but she might've said that about his murderous-looking armour or the blood of their enemies too. He was lucky to have been born with those chiselled good looks, because he had certainly not been blessed with an easy temperament.

"What I owe you," he said, explaining the coin. "For Wicked Grace."

In joining their weekly Wicked Grace sessions at the Hanged Man, Fenris had racked up a considerable debt in losses. He was actually rather good at the part of the game that required stoic wagering (something that Marian could not manage to save her life); however, he seemed incapable of accepting that both Varric and Isabella were inveterate cheaters and would win any significant pot by virtue of extra cards hidden in sleeves, pockets, cleavage or excessive dwarven chest hair. In consequence, he owed Varric five sovereigns and Isabella enough coin to fund her next expedition to the Blooming Rose, debts that he was fool enough to honour and which they brought up at every opportunity, likely thinking he would eventually have to cave in and admit poverty. To disappoint their plans, she'd offered to lend him the money, a debt that she would later conveniently 'forget' and treat as the cheaters' share of the adventuring profits.

Pulling open the drawstrings of the bag, she found the full amount of his debt, most of it scraped together in silver pieces.

"You didn't have to do this," she said. "I wouldn't have sicced the Coterie on you. I'm not Bartrand or those horrid little anklebitters at the Dwarven Merchants' Guild, you know. Although I realize the resemblance is uncanny."

"I would honour my debts. To take responsibility for one's choices – that is a part of freedom, is it not?"

"It is. I just – I'd hoped we might handle this differently..."

He paused, his green eyes narrowing, scanning her face as if searching for clues. Whatever he saw there seemed to leave him baffled. "Have I done something...incorrect? It was not my wish to make you uncomfortable."

She shook her head, unsure whether to sit down and weep or throw her head back and laugh like a madwoman. "Really, must you speak to me like - like that? I realize you don't see any purpose in discussing what happened between us, but is it necessary to be so cold? Do you feel nothing?"

"I feel...a great deal more than nothing. If I seem unduly formal, it is because I had thought it more respectful."

"You know, Fenris, the last time I checked it's possible to show respect without acting like a stone golem."

He glowered at the floor with such intensity a casual observer might've mistaken him for an apprentice mage trying to summon fire. "And what would you wish of me? I'm doing what I can."

"Come into the study. Please. Let's be civilized about this." She opened the door, ushering him towards the hearth. She sat down in the nearest chair and he followed suit, perching on the edge of the one opposite her.

She folded her hands together, watching the fire spark and dance, flickering as a draft of cold air swept down from the chimney. "Must we have this awkwardness between us? I suppose I just don't see why we should waste a perfectly good friendship because of one night. If we behave this way at the Hanged Man, everyone will want to drink themselves silly."

His expression lightened somewhat, his eyebrows rising and giving his gaunt face a somewhat eager and quizzical appearance. Even his ears seemed to perk up, but perhaps that was simply her imagination. "I had not expected that you'd want to see me again. At the Hanged Man or anywhere else. They're your friends, not mine."

She folded her arms across her chest. "Says who?"

"Anders, for one."

Marian was well-aware that the elf and the apostate despised one another, but she'd been hoping that, over time, their mutual loathing would gradually turn into a vitriolic sort of friendship. Thus far, it had not occurred as planned and she had been forced to take solace in the fact that listening to them snipe at one another was often very amusing. "Bah, that was probably his pet demon talking. After all, without you, he wouldn't have a proper outlet for his righteous indignation."

A grin crept to Fenris' lips and she could tell he was enjoying fond memories of heckling Anders. "Suffice it to say, I haven't made myself popular."

"But did you ever want to? When it comes to making friends, you always struck me as the type who was looking for quality rather than quantity. For example, me," she said. "I happen to be a marvellous friend. The sort who draws you into all sorts of lovely danger and intrigue."

"Danger and intrigue. Just what my life's been lacking."

"Oh, but think of all the picnics on the Wounded Coast and bloody slaver massacres you would've missed out on if it weren't for me."

He offered her one of his tight, enigmatic smiles, a gift all the more precious because it was rare and fleeting. "Indeed. You have been a true friend to me, Marian. The best I could hope to possess. I am long accustomed to solitude, but I cannot deny that I would...miss your companionship."

"Of course, you would," she said, smiling, feigning the blissful overconfidence that seemed to come so naturally to Isabella. "And I would miss helping you redecorate the mansion with Danarius' wine. So it's settled then. We shall be friends. And if anyone should inquire into what went on before...well, it's none of their business. It's likely no one even took notice."

"You believe that, do you?"

"And why shouldn't I? Who would be bothered to care?"

Fenris shook his head ruefully. "More people than you think."

"Why?"

"You're an attractive prospect, Marian. You will be sought after."

"I guess that will feel nice. Rejection is a hard lot to bear." As soon as she said the words, she regretted them. They sounded bitterer than she had intended.

He bit the insides of his cheeks, casting his gaze to the fire. "It wasn't like that. I...you know what I am and what I cannot be."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'll drop it. Let's speak of more pleasant things. Would you like to borrow another book?"

"I should like that. I don't suppose you have a copy of the -"

The door to the study creaked open and her mother, Leandra Hawke, poked her head into the room. When she spied Fenris, her dark eyes hardened and two little lines carved between her brows. "Excuse me, dear. I didn't realize you had company."

Fenris straightened up in his chair as if he were one of Aveline's guardsmen on an inspection day. "Hello. How do you do?"

"I've been better," Leandra said pointedly. "The rain makes my bones ache. What brings you here, Fenris?"

Marian stared at her mother, trying to send her a telepathic request to please not embarrass her. Leandra seemed to enjoy submitting her friends to an interrogation almost every time they visited and she did not hesitate to let them know when she disapproved of them, as she almost invariably did. "He's borrowing a book, Mother."

"Ah, a book. I see," Leandra sounded dubious about this, as if certain that they were actually engaged in lyrium smuggling. Which, indeed, with Fenris around, would have been quite easy to manage. "Has he heard Orana play the lute?"

"I have not," Fenris answered, ignoring the fact that her question wasn't directed to him.

Leandra persisted in speaking about him as if he was not there. "He should speak to her more often. She's a charming girl and they have so much in common. Besides, she plays the lute wonderfully. Marian, shall I ask her to come down and play?"

Marian knew this tactic all too well. She found it transparent and dreadfully embarrassing, although she knew that Mother thought she was being clever in her attempts to transfer Fenris' attentions to someone 'more appropriate'.

"No, thank you," Fenris said. "I am not much inclined to music."

Mother frowned, the lines in her brow deepening. She brushed a strand of mouse-grey hair behind her ear.

"Marian, I just wanted to remind you that we have that event coming up. The one you promised me you'd attend. So if you're making plans, you'll want to be sure to avoid scheduling over it."

Ah yes, the Party. It had been the focus of Leandra's existence for several weeks now and Marian couldn't have forgotten the date if she'd been abducted into the Fade and bludgeoned about the head by a demon of Filial Neglect. "Fear not, Mother. I will be there. With bells on."

"Good. And please don't shut the study door. I dislike it when you become so...private." Mother walked away, leaving the door gaping, a precautionary measure, no doubt. Leandra seemed to be under the impression that the second a door closed, the former elven slave would rip her daughter's clothes off and make passionate love to her on all the estate's antique furniture. Marian only wished her mother's apprehensions were true. Sadly, she really was about to lend Fenris a book – it wasn't a euphemism for something delightful and naughty that she would have to go repent at Chantry.

Fenris hunched back down, leaning his elbows on his knees. His posture was almost always one of wariness and coiled aggression, as if he were readying himself to lunge at an attacker. "Your mother is certainly full of praise for Orana."

"Yes. She's very fond of her."

"And not so fond of me, I imagine."

"I don't think she knows how to act around you."

Marian left it at that. She loved her mother too much to admit aloud that Leandra didn't trust elves unless they were cleaning her floors.

"She referred to some mysterious event you're attending?"

"Oh. That." Marian rolled her eyes to show her opinion of it. "It's a party she's hosting. She wants me around to serve drinks and chat up the neighbours. It's sure to be dull."

"I see." That was probably an understatement. Marian often felt as if Fenris could see right through her attempts at tact or social niceties. It was a talent he seemed to share with the Arishok. Didn't anyone ever tell lies on Seheron? If only just to be pleasant?

"You were about to request a book. Hopefully something more engaging than that dry old family history that Grandfather wrote?"

"Yes. Do you have the Chant of Light?"

"Are you sure you don't want 'Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder'?" She pried the book off the shelf, dandling it before him. "Varric is a master of suspense. Or well... he's a master of something alright."

"Tempting, I'm sure, but I was hoping for something that would renew my faith in this world."

"Ah. As opposed to making you want to gouge people's eyes out and set things on fire? Right. Perhaps Andraste has one up on Varric in that department." She handed him the copy of the Chant that Sebastian had sent along with her reward for exacting vengeance on the mercenaries who'd slaughtered his family. It was a simple version with illuminations and she thought he'd be likely to have an easier time with it than the last books he'd borrowed.

"Would you like to keep meeting for lessons? I was rather pleased at my progress with the Qun."

In exchange for helping Fenris with his reading, Marian had asked him to teach her the Qunari customs and language so that she wouldn't feel like such a hopeless naïf in audiences before the Arishok. This deal had seemed to please him and did much to sate the demands of his pride, which was the primary obstacle to his learning.

Fenris offered her another of his secretive smiles, before replying in Qunari, _"Amasit tamassin elriet, Kadan."_

The use of the word 'Kadan' flustered Marian for a moment, when she thought of its literal meaning: 'centre of the heart'. Of course, Qunari sometimes used it more lightly, to refer to a brother in arms or a close friend. It wasn't necessary as...intimate as she thought. Or as she'd hoped.

"_Sharun. Anaan esaam Qun, Tamassran,_" she answered, more haltingly but with the accents in the correct places.

Fenris nodded, gratified. "Very good. I think that settles it then. We shall have to continue or your grasp of Qunari will outpace my reading."

He slouched back in his seat, resting his shoulders against the cushions. It was funny to see him feign comfort or ease, since he clearly had little appreciation for luxuries except as injustices to bristle up against, bottles to smash into walls. Whenever he tried to look casual about something, she knew he was trying to get one over on her.

"About this party of yours," he said. "Will anyone I know be in attendance?"

"Aveline. Sebastian. Cullen. And, well, maybe Saemus," Marian admitted. "It's not my party. It's mostly people Mother knows. From Chantry."

"If I were to make an appearance, I imagine I'd look rather conspicuous."

She'd never expected Fenris to angle for an invitation, especially since it wasn't as if he was the only one Mother had purposefully omitted from the guest list. Leandra had also excluded 'the shady dwarf', 'the Dalish girl', 'the angry blonde man' and 'that vulgar pirate wench' and Marian hadn't offered any protest because she'd doubted any of them would care. Well, perhaps Merrill, but she wasn't sure her friend was ready for an evening in Kirkwall society and staid Kirkwall society certainly wasn't ready for her.

"I didn't think you'd want to come," she said. "But if you do, you're certainly invited."

He gave a stiff shrug, his green eyes turning towards the fireside and reflecting its light. "I don't have any other pressing business to attend to. And I must admit, I'm curious. To see how the other half lives."

"You don't honestly think I'm the 'other half'?" She felt a little sensitive on this point. Not all of her old smuggling pals from Lowtown had taken her rising fortunes with the expected good grace.

"No. Not yet."

She gave a low chuckle of disbelief. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Simply that we're very different, you and I. And very soon, I suspect you will have the world laid out before you like a banquet, where you may pick and choose."

She smirked. "And how do you know this? Have you been gazing into your crystal ball?"

"No. But I am covered in lyrium. That should be ominous enough to warrant a reputation for prophesy."

She grinned. _Well, look at you, Fenris, _she thought_. You made a little joke._ Perhaps Varric's bad influence was rubbing off on him after all. "You needn't worry, Tamassran. I have no intention of becoming a bore. Or a boor. Or anything else that's unpleasant. I still have enough Fereldan mud on my boots to remember who I am and where I came from."

"I am glad to hear it," he said simply.

He pulled his chair around and they took turns reading from the Chant for a while, stopping occasionally to discuss the meaning of a passage or a particularly obscure bit of phrasing. Although Marian had gone to Chantry even back in Ferelden, she'd never been as devout as she could have been. She'd taken many of the doctrines for granted and often, during boring sermons, she'd passed the time by scanning the Chantry pews for handsome men or indulging in speculations about her neighbours' sins. Working over the material at Fenris' urging had given her a different perspective on the religion. It had more than its share of faults and internal hypocrisies, but she could see that it offered hope and consolation too, assurances that she might have used after Carver's death. Fenris seemed fascinated by it, although he reacted to his favourite passages as he did with almost everything he liked, with a sense of incredulity, as if this too were a mirage in the desert and might dissipate when he tried to grasp it.

They passed the rest of the afternoon reading and talking by the fire, until it seemed that they'd settled back into their old companionship, but with one alteration - a sense of physical tension that pervaded every gesture and seemed to invest their words and glances with underlying meanings as twisted as a nest of serpents. In this new state of the union, inconsequential things gave Marian a secret thrill – the way Fenris angled his head towards her or how his eyes might catch the light, for just a moment. There was that red band too. He'd looked at it as she'd read to him, self-consciously adjusting it and then tightening the knot to secure it higher on his wrist.

When he'd gone home at last, Marian felt herself mystified by the nature of their new friendship, with the sinking realization that she was still as entangled as ever in her feelings for him. There was also the unpleasant matter of having to explain to Mother that she had just invited Fenris to her Very Exclusive Party, the one Leandra was relying on to relive her Amell past and launch the Hawke family into the loftiest circles of Kirkwall society.

Marian found Leandra working on embroidery in her chambers upstairs, stitching an intricate pattern of birds and vines along the edge of a cream-coloured silk pillowcase.

"That's beautiful, Mother," she said, hoping to earn a few points before the eventual revelation. "Have you been working on it long?"

"Only a month. I do wish I'd taught you needlework. It would be so helpful in preparing your trousseau."

"My...trousseau?" This came as a shock to Marian, although she'd known for a long time that her mother wished her to marry. Nevertheless, she'd thought that Leandra would confine herself to wringing her hands and occasionally haranguing her about the risk and instability of her lifestyle, rather than actually engaging in any sort of ghastly preparations. "I appreciate the gesture, but I don't think I will have any need of that."

"You may very shortly, I think." Leandra switched to another colour of thread. "There will be quite a number of eligible young men at the party and you're coming to an age when you need to start considering your options."

"I've considered my options. I believe I'll take the one that doesn't involve becoming a baby machine for some noble twit who will lend me respectability if I let him dip into the family coffers."

"Marian!"

"Come, Mother, you didn't take the conventional path with Father. Perhaps I take after you."

"And if I had to go back, perhaps I'd do things differently. I loved your father, but I'll confess that life with an apostate certainly took its toll on all of us," Leandra said. "Constantly fleeing templars, hiding in our own home, seeing the ruin of the Amell name... Chasing forbidden love isn't something that I'd advocate to anyone, not when you might find something real amongst your own kind. Don't go repeating my mistakes. You're my daughter, Marian, and I want better for you."

"Yes, but I want to make my own mistakes." She paused a beat, allowing this to sink in. "Speaking of which, I invited Fenris to your party."

Her mother looked less than overjoyed at this prospect. "Oh, Maker. Really? How will anyone have a good time with him moping around?"

Marian shrugged. "It's easier than it looks. I do it all the time."

"Don't smart-mouth me. I told you I didn't want to be associated with anyone disreputable."

"It could be worse. I could have invited Varric and his six imaginary cousins. By comparison, Fenris isn't reallllly disreputable."

"Just dirty and foul-tempered."

She arched a brow at her mother. "Alright, Fenris is surly, taciturn and morose, but...dirty? He's always seemed perfectly hygienic to me."

"Elves have...unclean habits." Leandra's tone of voice seemed to imply that she was speaking of something more sinister than just a failure to scrub behind their ears. "Back in Ferelden, they were always spreading disease. I trust that you've been to the Alienage here? You've seen how they live."

"Yes and the filthiest alley there is at least as sanitary as Uncle's house. You can't be serious about this."

Her mother's needle winnowed in and out of the fabric, stitches bunching together to form a cluster of purple grapes. "I just hate to see you frittering away the best years of your life on someone so...inappropriate."

"These are the best years of my life? Oh Maker, where's a noose when you need one?" Marian picked up a piece of her mother's thread and tied it into a gallows knot. "Ah, there we are..."

"That is not funny."

"Really? Because I'm amused."

"This isn't a joke." Leandra's frown deepened. "Can you honestly see yourself creating any sort of stable partnership with that wretched elf? What sort of husband would he be? What sort of father?"

"The sort who eats his young, I expect. He might spit them out, too, if they happened to be mages."

Leandra scowled and Marian heaved a sigh, annoyed at having to concede the point. "Very well. He's not...practical. Rather like Orlesian shoes."

Encouraged, Leandra pressed onward. "And would you want to go on a long journey shod in Orlesian shoes? No. You'd want a good respectable pair of boots."

She paused, looking over her selection of spools to find the right colour of thread, until, realizing that the shade she desired was clutched in Marian's hand, she snatched it away, wagging her finger at her daughter's thoughtlessness.

"I've seen the way you look at each other and I won't say that infatuation isn't thrilling," she continued. "I'll admit, that in my more frivolous moments, I've looked at you swanning around and thought I might like to try a draught of whatever you were drinking. But I also know that when the passion fades, you'll be stuck with a churlish, penniless elven slave and it will be a rude awakening."

Marian turned away, pretending to examine the statuette on her mother's nightstand, a mawkish wood carving of two figures embracing. She sneered at it and set down a little harder than she'd planned, so that it fell over with a jarring thud and she had to put it straight, nervous that she might've scraped the polished finish. "In any case, there's no need to wear that woebegone expression. Whatever happened between Fenris and I... well, it's over now."

"Oh, dear. I'm sorry." Leandra softened her voice to approximate sympathy but the reply came a little too fast and underneath the feigned sorrow, Marian could detect a note of triumph. She knew that her mother was already rifling through her mental catalogue of young Kirkwall bachelors.

"You're not sorry. You're as pleased as a cat in the creamery."

"I am sorry that you've been hurt," Leandra elaborated. This was more believable. "But, that elf is dreadful! Why, precisely, is he coming to my party?"

This sudden outrage brought a smile to Marian's lips. Her mother didn't want her involved with Fenris, but she also reserved the right to despise him for having the unmitigated gall to break up with her daughter. The idea that these two stances might be in conflict would never occur to Leandra, who seemed to expect that a former slave would have to be stupid or utterly mad to reject the affections of her beloved first-born.

"We're still friends," Marian said. "You don't have any reason to be angry with him."

"I suppose I shall have to tolerate his presence. However, just because I will not have the elf ejected from the ballroom does not mean I will be pleased to see him." A thought came to her and a mortified look passed over her face. "Oh, heavens, do you think he'll wear that terrible armour?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you should consult his valet."

"His valet?" Leandra's eyes widened.

Marian pressed her lips together to suppress a giggle. "He doesn't have a valet. Although if you'd pretend to think Anders had the job, I'd give you five sovereigns."

Mother was not amused.


	2. Absence and Presence

Fenris re-read the line carefully, trying to compel the words to form images in his mind.

_In the absence of light, shadows thrive. _

Yes, this was easy to appreciate. He had simply to look around his room to see the metaphor vividly illustrated. Aside from the one meagre candle he kept by the bed, when evening fell, the rest of the mansion was shrouded in darkness. He liked how empty it felt, taking comfort in the isolation, the sense that the world had ceased to be and that he was merely a consciousness floating in the void, feeling nothing, not anger, not suffering, not desire. Perhaps that was what it was like for a mage to be Tranquil. Not such a terrible thing, he thought, compared to Tevinter.

He was not convinced that the Maker actually existed, but he was glad that he'd borrowed Marian's copy of the Chant of Light for two reasons. Firstly, he was fond of the verses and had already undertaken to memorize a few passages by heart, with the intention of hurling them back at Anders or Merrill if they should start babbling about their reckless associations with demons.

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.  
Foul and corrupt are they  
Who have taken His gift  
And turned it against His children.  
They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.  
They shall find no rest in this world  
Or beyond_.

It all had a very official sound to it, properly menacing, which he enjoyed. Even if the Chantry was wrong about everything else, they had the right idea here.

The second fortuitous consequence of borrowing Marian's copy of the Chant was that he would eventually have to return it, thus providing him with another justification to stop by her house. Fenris felt presumptuous going there without reason and while his reading lessons provided him with a good rationale for afternoon visits, the pretext of bringing back the book meant he could swing by anytime he pleased without having to face the unnerving realization that he _wanted_ to be there. With a chore to do or a question to ask or a message that needed to be delivered, he could treat going to see her as if it was just another duty that he undertook out of necessity, rather than something pleasurable, something that if he didn't stay vigilant, might become necessary to his happiness rather than his survival. He found the thought of happiness itself rather unsettling. It seemed to require a great deal of forgetfulness and that was dangerous. He knew this fact as only an amnesiac could.

Fenris blinked his eyes, grown watery with weariness, and put the book aside, snuffing the candle with his fingertips. It was time to sleep - or, more accurately, to attempt sleep. He lay back against the blanket he'd balled up to form a pillow for his head and tried to empty his mind of the day's events: the time he'd spent packing his few possessions, believing that he was leaving Kirkwall forever; the full hour he'd spent pacing the Estates in the rain, strategizing and planning speeches in his head; how all these good and noble intentions had fallen apart as soon as he'd found his way to Marian's door, as flimsy things tend to do when soaked in water.

He found it particularly difficult to purge his memory of Marian's expression when she'd opened the door and saw him standing there, drenched and no doubt, looking quite the fool. Something had glimmered behind her eyes, just for a moment, and flickered out, before she'd stared him down with the same gameness and resolve she deployed in slaying dragons of various sizes. He'd come to collect his share of contempt and recriminations before leaving the city and instead, he'd received a blanket, a book and an invitation to a party that he wasn't supposed to attend. It was all rather bewildering and such mysteries were not conducive to his sleep. He didn't understand why she'd offered her friendship to him again, after he'd wronged her, after he'd made it clear that he had nothing to offer her but confusion, fear and pain. It bothered him that she'd punished him less for his defection than he'd punished himself.

Perhaps he'd mistaken her feelings and she saw what had happened between them as simply physical, easily dismissed. That wouldn't have bothered him if he'd been able to maintain the same detachment and in fact, under such conditions, he might've appeared outside her door the next evening to scratch the mutual itch. The problem was that being with her had not been an impersonal exchange of pleasure and it was not a place he could lose himself as in the midst of a fight or at the bottom of one of Danarius' wine bottles. Being with her had felt intimate to him and it was hard to let her know him when he didn't even know himself. If she had not cared for him beyond pressing flesh, then it'd simply been his delusion and she must take him for not simply a coward, but an irredeemably pitiable figure.

Fenris let this idea gnaw at him for a while, before devising a new torture for himself. She had wanted him. She had felt that intoxicating, overwhelming rush of feeling that he'd experienced - right up until he'd shown up, dripping wet, at her front door, his weakness practically written across his face. At that second, she had realized what she was contending with: a half-person, a body severed from a soul, as dull and lifeless as the iron statues of huddled slaves by the Gallows. She'd seen his chains, the ones that would never come off and any desire she'd had for him had melted away, replaced by a vague 'kindness' or worse yet, charity. She would be his friend because he had no other. This troubled him so much that he spent the next sleepless hour trying to summon forth evidence to systematically disprove it. He did this with some success, but then it occurred to him that he was altogether too concerned about how she felt about him and he wondered why it should matter.

Since his latest escape from Danarius, Fenris had decided to give himself the freedom of not caring what anyone thought of him. In fact, he had begun to derive a peculiar pleasure from picking fights and igniting hatreds, a constant reassurance that no one could bend his will to theirs, and he took a special grim delight in his antagonisms with mages. Yet, despite this newfound sense of self, of separateness, he felt compelled to earn Marian's regard. The possibility that she might cease to feel anything for him was... strangely vexing. He didn't know why he should fixate on what she felt. It wasn't as if he could enjoy the benefit of those feelings up close or share her bed. He could only waste time and lose sleep, worrying in his own.

The next morning, Fenris marched himself straight across Hightown and climbed the imposing stairs up to the Chantry. He found Sebastian sitting in one of the pews, praying. Unable to claim the priest's attention until his devotions had concluded, Fenris wandered around the building, eyeing the golden statues of the Maker, the icons of Andraste, the incense burning on the censer and rising in clouds of orange smoke, bringing Seheron to mind, although he was unsure why this would be.

There was a bowl of water set out near the last aisle and he saw several people dip their hands in it, so he did the same, resolving that he would obtain a full explanation for this ritual from Sebastian later. He decided that he liked this place, at least from an aesthetic point of view. Compared to the decadent temples of Minrathous and the opulent mansions of the magisters, the Chantry's attempts at grandeur looked simple and homely, appropriate to a religion that claimed to lend comfort to the downtrodden.

At last, Sebastian opened his eyes and came over to find him. "Good morning. I'm sorry for the wait. Mother Elthina takes lauds prayers very seriously."

"So I see. It was no trouble."

"How are you faring?"

Fenris ignored the uncomfortably personal question and launched into principal inquiry that had driven him here. "When we last spoke, you mentioned a ritual called confession. What is its purpose?"

Sebastian looked pleased at this question – indeed, a little too eager for Fenris' liking. If the priest was already counting him as a convert, he was bound to be disappointed. "Confession is a means of cleansing one's soul of sin before the Maker. By admitting guilt and taking responsibility for wrongdoing, a petitioner can move towards making true penance and becoming free of the weight of the past."

"Hm. And you think talk is the cure?" He placed a derisive emphasis on the word 'talk' to show how absurd this premise sounded, the idea that something as frail and as useless as words was supposed to make any difference to him.

"Not mere talk. Taking account of one's life. As I see it, accepting the forgiveness of the Maker is the first step towards being able to forgive oneself, which is often much harder to do."

"I imagine that means having to remember every sin one has committed. That is...somewhat unfeasible for me."

Everything that'd happened before the markings had been lost. It was as if he'd been born anew on that metal table in Danarius' laboratory. There'd been words muffled at the edge of his hearing, grinding against the sides of his skull, as if they'd locked his head in a vise. There'd been faces staring down at him, eyes sunk like blackcurrants in doughy flesh, a sense of lingering malice, of a violation too atrocious to be kept in his mind. The pain of lyrium, burning splinters under his skin - it had obliterated all the rest.

"Ah, well, Andraste knows the hearts of those who come to her and she intercedes to the Maker at our behest," Sebastian said. "What you don't remember, she will. None of us can achieve perfection in this life, after all. It's the intention to strive for good that matters most."

He felt his mouth twitch and tried to still it. It wouldn't do to seem ungrateful. "Good intentions have a way of falling short."

Sebastian shrugged, with an air of imperturbable good humour that annoyed Fenris, mostly because he envied it. It must be reassuring to have all the answers. "The flesh is weak. That's why I've made more than my fair share of confessions over the years."

"So you simply keep committing sins and confessing? When does it stop?"

"When one dies, I expect," the Brother replied. "The idea, of course, is to avoid committing the same sins over and over or at least, to revert to them with a little less frequency. In my wild youth, I worked my way through quite a number of sins so I've had a particular challenge in not repeating any."

He smiled at this and shook his head, although it was hard to discern whether he was remembering these times with regret or a certain shame-faced fondness.

"In any case, Fenris, confession isn't an escape hatch. For example, it doesn't do an assassin any good to confess a dozen murders and then return to killing people for pay. Despite what some Antivan Crows think."

Fenris nodded. It made a certain degree of sense, this ritual, although he could still see much potential for abuse. "Very well. Suppose I wished to attempt this confession. What would I have to do?"

Sebastian pointed to a wooden booth sequestered in one of the building's many alcoves. "Well, you'd go sit in the right side of the confessional. There'd be a Brother or Sister waiting on the other side at most hours of the day and they'd listen patiently to whatever you have to say. Or we could arrange to meet and I'd listen. As your friend."

"That's a great deal of blackmail material I'd be handing someone. Hardly the way to a better night's sleep."

It seemed a perfectly valid objection, but Sebastian looked amused. "That's the idea of the confessional. It's dark in there and unless you open the window, your confessor can't really see you. Besides, if they're true followers of Andraste and not simply pious hypocrites, they'd never dream of abusing the holy sacrament of confession."

Fenris wasn't a great fan of blind trust. Cleansing his soul, however, was a task that interested him, much more than the obvious chore of disposing of all the rubbish left behind in Danarius' mansion. The idea warranted thought and time to weigh the risks. He would not commit himself until he was sure. "Hm. I'll consider it. For now, perhaps I'll just settle for...an opinion. Since you seem to have no shortage of them."

"I'm certainly willing to listen, although the only counsel I can recommend is what I've borrowed from Andraste. When left to my own devices, my decision-making is quite poor, I can assure you."

"I stand warned," he replied. "I shall warn you too. I do not speak of this...lightly. I expect discretion. Not only for my sake."

Sebastian nodded, his face taking on the focus of a falcon twisting in its gyres. "Of course."

"I had an entanglement and I, ahem, still seem to be caught up in it."

"This world is full of nets and traps," Sebastian said. "Of what...nature was this 'entanglement'?'

"I slept with Marian." This declaration came out more bluntly and more loudly than he had intended and several parishioners in the rows in front of them broke their pious reflections and turned to stare at him. He returned these looks with a particularly discouraging glare of his own to remind them to keep to their own business.

"With – uh, Hawke?" Sebastian's face flushed and he darted a glance around the room, to see if anyone they knew had overheard. "Maybe the confessional would be a good idea..."

Fenris eyed the confessional booth for a moment, considering it, before shaking his head. "No. I don't repent it."

"Alright. Fair enough. But perhaps you might lower your voice a bit? There are a lot of older people who come here to pray and well, Hawke's mother attends services quite regularly..."

Sebastian took another look around, then mopped his brow with back of his hand and leaned forward, sighing. It seemed that none of the Sisters had overheard and no one would be marching over to expel them from the sanctuary.

"What would your Chant say about how is one supposed to behave...afterward?" Fenris asked. "When things fall apart?"

Sebastian pondered this a moment. "Well, I understand it's an unpopular view, but firstly, I think Andraste would ask us not to engage in these types of things lightly."

Fenris frowned. "I did not."

"I guess I should clarify what I mean. According to the Chantry's understanding of things, a person is best-served when he or she isn't being blindly driven about by feelings or personal desires."

"Better those than the will of another."

"Andraste calls us to consider the health of the spirit first and to avoid harming others by using their bodies to fulfil our emotional needs," Sebastian continued, undaunted. "Sharing physical intimacy with someone too quickly, outside of the stability of matrimony – well, it can have unpleasant consequences. It can be degrading to one's dignity. I think a person need only visit an establishment like the Blooming Rose or those Lowtown taverns to understand that."

Fenris hunched down in his seat, unsure how to respond to this. On one hand, he could appreciate Sebastian's point, since he found the flesh trade at the Blooming Rose unsettlingly close to his remembrances of slavery and the piss-and-vomit stench of the Hanged Man was repugnant. Conversely, he wouldn't deny that the idea of casual sex, like drinking and gambling away his coin at Wicked Grace, had an illicit appeal and being new to his freedom, he was hesitant to deny himself anything.

"Did I explain that in a way that makes sense to you?" Sebastian asked. "I must admit, I often feel that I haven't been practising long enough to preach. I can speak from painful experience about the toll of sin, but the rewards of virtue...well, that's definitely a work in progress."

"I understand, even if I don't like it," Fenris said. "The fact that it's a bitter pill is likely a good sign. When something's unpleasant to hear, it's most often true."

Sebastian chuckled. "Yes, that does tend to be the way of things. Now, in your situation, dealing with the end of a...sort of relationship, it might be useful to consider Maferath and the warning his life gives us. Are you familiar with that story?"

Fenris knew it well enough. It bothered him that Sebastian felt he had to inquire, but the gap in their educations must be evident. The prince had been schooled by tutors and other learned men in all the arts and scholarly disciplines. By contrast, he was aware that others must see him as an ignorant brute, able to read and write only with painstaking effort, knowing too many ugly, unspeakable things and practically nothing of any charm or refinement.

"Your Chantry claims he was Andraste's mortal husband. He sold her to the magisters."

"Indeed," Sebastian nodded approvingly. "As the story goes, he became resentful and jealous when it became clear that his relationship with Andraste had changed and that she had devoted her heart to the Maker. The love he'd once felt for her turned to bitter hatred. It's an example, I believe, of everything one would wish to avoid in dealing with a former lover. When such things come to an end, I think Andraste would urge us to behave with great kindness and consideration and to avoid possessiveness, malice or vengefulness."

"Easy to say. More difficult to put into practise."

"Yes. That's why it's the ideal," Sebastian said. "If you're looking for a religion that makes things simple, Andrasteism may not be the best choice. Of course, what's convenient is rarely what's right and I have the sense that you would prefer hard-earned righteousness to the easy path."

Fenris cracked a thin smile. He liked to believe this about himself, but he often had his doubts. In his quest for freedom from Danarius, he'd certainly opted for the path of least resistance – slaughtering anyone who stood in his way or whose continued existence might interfere with his security and peace of mind. "I believe you overestimate my fondness for complications. Now, Varric, he never seems bothered by anything. Perhaps I ought to look into the dwarf's religion."

"You mean, Bianca and the Hanged Man?" Sebastian grinned, seeming to enjoy this little dig at the one who'd given him of the detested nickname of 'Choirboy'. He appeared reluctant to enjoy it too much, however, because after a brief pause, he quickly corrected himself. "Actually, I think Varric is secretly a much better man than he pretends to be. He can be a remarkably generous person. Wait and see. He'll come to the Maker yet."

"On his deathbed. The dwarf likes to hedge his bets." Fenris stood up, offering Sebastian a nod. "I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me. You've been helpful. I won't forget it."

"It was my pleasure. I'm here, should you have any more questions about the faith. I can see you've been giving it real thought."

"Yes. I won't deny that having a creed presents certain consolations. I could get to enjoy a dose of that certainty of yours." He turned, shuffling out of the narrow pew and striding towards the stairs that led down to the first floor of the Chantry.

He heard Sebastian's voice behind him. "Take care of yourself, Fenris."

Take care of himself? When did he not? Fenris wasn't sure he liked this note of concern from the priest, since he had not come to ask for his pity. He had merely been curious about a question of doctrine and how it might relate to the recent...event with Marian. This conversation had not been invitation for the well-intentioned man to condescend to him or go poking around in his private affairs.

"Good morning to you, Vael."

He got the words out and hurried down the stairs, deciding that it would be sometime before he troubled to go to confession and even then, he wouldn't be giving up any sordid details to appease the curiosity of Starkhaven's exiled prince.

After procuring this balm for his spirit, Fenris had an appointment in the Hightown Market with a pair of Orlesian merchants looking for an armed escort to Westmoreland, a village along the Wounded Coast. For a mercenary contract, it seemed easy enough and the coin would be useful, since he'd cleaned out most of his savings repaying his debt to Marian. All the merchants seemed to want was a hired thug, someone who could look properly intimidating and kill the occasional raider, which he would have done free of charge.

The more talkative of the two had commented on his markings, however, which put him on his guard. "Ees very decorative, no? It does not appear like ze inks we have in Orlais."

Fenris set his fist down on the table, watching lyrium move along the ridges of his knuckles, mocking the pattern of his veins. "I'm not from Orlais."

"Why, that ees evident. In Orlais, fashion is very strict. In Kirkwall..." The man paused to chuckle into his hand. "In Kirkwall, well, ees a little better than Ferelden, I suppose. Country of the dogs and the dog shit. Of course, now the refugees are in the city and so it gets stupider and poorer."

"Not to mention ill-favoured," the other Orlesian said. "Have you been down to the mire see the beggars? A bunch of yellow-skinned ragbags."

Fenris felt his jaw tighten with anger and he dug his fingers into the table to keep himself from doing something...unwise. It shouldn't have bothered him. Marian was an entirely different class of Fereldan from the ones they were talking about, the wretches who couldn't find work and lived in the sewers, hunting rats and picking through garbage, the filthy specimens who loitered around barrel fires, warming their hands and growling to one another. To take offense on her behalf because someone had insulted those other Fereldans – it was absurd. It was like actually listening to Merrill when she tried to prod him into feeling a connection with the arrogant Dalish or the slovenly inhabitants of the Alienage.

"I know Fereldans," he said from between gritted teeth. "One of them is the Guard Captain and a worthy soldier. Another is the most admirable woman I have ever encountered. Meanwhile, all the Orlesians I've met have been insufferable fools."

Needless to say, he did not receive the contract. Instead, he returned to the mansion and treated himself to a liquid lunch – nearly an entire bottle of cheap wine (and a morsel of stale bread). This made the indignity of almost hiring himself out to a pair of absurd creatures trading in bolts of cloth and gaudy baubles decidedly more tolerable. Having finished his meal, an idea occurred to him and he went sauntering down to the Keep to see if he could track down Aveline.

After enduring questioning looks from the guards, he finally managed to locate the Captain in her office, besieged by a mountainous pile of paperwork.

Aveline did not trouble to conceal her exasperation. "What do you want? You haven't come to make my day easier, have you?"

"No. That wasn't my express intention. Although I could take a few of those complaints off your desk. You'd never see them again." Any papers he lifted from her desk would make wonderful kindling for the hearth in his mansion.

Not clearly buying this, Aveline grabbed a fistful of papers, evidently ones relating to his activities in Hightown, and flung them into the bottom drawer of her desk. "Uh-uh. Not happening. So just drop it."

Fenris shrugged. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You can hardly blame me for trying."

"I do blame you. I reserve that right."

"As you please."

She planted her elbows on her desk, furrowing her brow. "Is there a reason you're here distracting me from my work? Or did you just need a break from stirring up trouble in the Estates?"

"You said something to me the other day. I wanted clarification."

Her eyebrows raised a good inch or so. "Well, that's a first."

"What?"

"You listened to something I said. What was it?"

"You told me I needed to present myself better," Fenris said. "What did you mean by that?"

She gave a loud snort. Not precisely ladylike, this Aveline Vallen. "Exactly what I said."

"You are not making this easy."

"And you are three sheets to the wind and have come wandering into my office."

He wasn't drunk, per say. Lightly inebriated, perhaps, but if anything, Fenris thought this only helped his social interactions. "Would I be more presentable sober?"

"Yes!" Aveline crossed her arms over her broad chest. "And if you had a proper house. You could do something about your clothing and your general attitude as well."

"I see. So I should become a different person entirely."

"It couldn't hurt," she shot back.

He glared across the desk at her, clutching the back of the wooden chair before him. He had the sense that she'd meant it mostly as a joke, but it was blunt, even for her. "Here I thought you were one of the select few who didn't despise me."

"I don't. I was under the impression you'd appreciate honesty."

"How very Fereldan of you." He instantly regretted saying this, since he had just finishing defending her and Marian's honour to the Orlesians. Luckily, it didn't seem to cause Aveline any offense. In fact, she seemed to pride herself on her plainness of speech and to consider this comment on her national character a fitting compliment.

"Why are you bothering me about this anyway?" she asked. "The first time I suggested it, you growled something about 'endeavouring to exist with less offense'. It wasn't exactly encouraging."

"Perhaps I've tired of being a social pariah."

"I find that hard to believe. You're making me very suspicious, Fenris."

He sighed. "Fine. I'm going to that event at Marian's manor and as it happens, I'd prefer not to cause any unpleasant incidents."

Aveline looked a trifle surprised at the fact he'd called Hawke by her first name and he felt embarrassed at the slip. No one called her Marian except Leandra and Bethany and to begin using the name too implied a degree of intimacy that he hadn't been planning to reveal to the Captain, who was notoriously protective of her surrogate family of refugees. Thankfully, she seemed inclined to let the mistake pass without remark.

"That's...surprisingly responsible of you," she said. "You could start by leaving your weapons at home."

"Not happening."

This answer hardly seemed to come as a shock. "Very well. Restricting to yourself to less obtrusive weapons?"

"Possibly."

She shuffled a few papers around on desk before venturing another suggestion. "If you wanted to try blending in, you could dye your hair to a more natural colour."

"So could you."

Aveline frowned, touching her coppery hair.

There was nothing wrong with it, really. If he were being strictly truthful, Fenris would have said it was rather striking, but she'd hit one of his sore spots and he couldn't resist the chance to get her back.

"Very funny," she said. "You know, it was only an idea."

"More of that admirable Fereldan honesty."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, and I'll give you some more. If you're serious about this, you'll quit scowling at everyone and you'll go to the party without that dreadful armour."

"No."

Fenris didn't understand what people in Kirkwall had against his attire. In Tevinter, such designs had been accounted fashionable and he imagined that Danarius had paid a pretty penny for the armour he wore. Besides, it'd served him in good stead when he'd cut a swath through the magister's bounty hunters and killed Hadrania, his vile bitch of an apprentice. He planned to put it to even better use when he slaughtered Danarius.

Aveline fixed him with a look one might give an obstinate child. "It's a party, Fenris. I'm Captain of the Guard and even I won't be wearing armour."

"You aren't being hunted by a magister and a few dozen bands of mercenaries."

"And you honestly believe Leandra invited them to her party?"

He chuckled. "Considering her dislike of me, I shouldn't be surprised."

"You're going to stick out like a sore thumb."

"I'll consider some...modifications to my usual attire."

This prompted a weary smile from Aveline, which she quickly suppressed, turning back to her paperwork. "Good. Go talk to Varric. He knows about these things. I have real business to attend to."

Fenris gave a sniff of disdain to show precisely what he thought of this idea. As if he'd take advice on clothing from someone who went swaggering around town with his shirt half unbuttoned. No, if he were to make a few... accommodations, for the sake of keeping the peace, then he'd manage them himself.

"A pleasure as ever, Captain." He said this with only a hint of irony, since he really didn't mind Aveline or her bluster. She was mule-stubborn at the best of times, but more sensible than many of Hawke's associates and he found her personal integrity commendable, even if it meant he didn't reap much benefit from his association with the Captain of the Guard.

Leaving the Keep, he wandered back down to the Hightown Market and began to browse the stalls, amused to observe the startled reactions of passersby. He didn't always enjoy standing out, but there was a part of him that took a perverse enjoyment in being so conspicuous, so offensive to the eyes of the Hightown nobility. There was no denying a history written on one's skin.

Noting the play of shadows on the cobblestones, he was reminded of the quotation from the Chant.

_In the absence of light, shadows thrive._

At the city summit on a bright summer afternoon, with sun-streaked clouds massing in the sky above and a grey-green sea glistening below, his own case did not seem so dire. Amidst the enveloping darkness, the void between slavery and freedom, there were glimmers of something good, a presence where Fenris had thought nothing could endure. This faint light was a comfort and he didn't want it to go, although he knew that it was quicksilver and he was slow and stone-hearted. He wasn't sure he could change or if he wanted to and yet he willed it to wait for him, selfishly, desperately, need gnawing his insides like a wolf's jaws.

Fenris made a few purchases and stalked back to his lair, locking the door and closing the curtains. He lit his meagre candle and let the shadows dance.


	3. The Lowdown in Lowtown

Marian had just finished paying out Uncle Gamlen's monthly allowance and was walking back through Lowtown Market when she saw a trail of twine winding its way among the merchants' stalls. Although she'd often heard Varric tease Merrill about getting lost and needing a piece of string to follow home, she'd always figured it was another one of his wild exaggerations. Amused at the possibility she might be able to track the elf all over Lowtown, Marian went where the twine led, chasing it up and down the avenues until she saw a familiar waifish figure roaming the edges of the Foundry District. It was disturbed to see the elf in this end of the neighbourhood, so close to where they'd discovered a woman's severed hand in one of the foundries. Not that she was really surprised by Merrill's obliviousness to danger – after all, the girl didn't hesitate to use blood magic or consort with demons.

"Merrill! What are you doing?"

The elf reeled around, blinking her big, dreamy eyes. Upon seeing Marian, she smiled, still looking a bit dazed. "Oohh, well, hello there, Hawke! What a funny coincidence to meet you in this great, big city."

"Not a coincidence at all." Marian stooped down and plucked the twine from the ground. "I simply followed your tail."

"Ah yes. Varric's idea, that. I kept getting lost everywhere. I don't need it so much anymore. Just when I leave the Alienage."

"Is there a reason why you're straying so close to the Foundry? I don't think I like you spending time here." Marian thought about the appointment with Emeric that she kept putting off, resolving to go see him straight away. She wasn't going to let a prospective killer get away just because she disliked making the journey out to the Gallows.

"I don't come here very often," Merrill said. "I thought I'd poke around. For tabby cats."

"And why would you do that?"

Marian already suspected the reason and she thought it was very sweet of Merrill to show such consideration for Anders when he was always heckling her over her magical affiliations. Although Marian shared his disdain for blood magic, she couldn't help but feel protective of the elven girl. She thought it was more productive to counsel her rather than just revile her.

"Anders made me a poultice the other day so I thought I might find a nice little pussy for him."

Marian started to giggle.

Merrill looked utterly baffled. "What? Did I say something funny?"

The elf's confusion only made it more amusing. Marian had to stop in mid-step and bend over, resting her hands on her thighs as she gasped for breath. "Yes. Yes, you did."

"It was something dirty, wasn't it?"

She regained her composure and took Merrill's arm, leading her back towards the relative safety of the Market. "Yes. And you know, Merrill, I think you're right. Poor Anders would probably be happier if he got himself a little pussy. I'm just not sure you're the person who should be giving it to him."

"Can you explain the dirty part?"

"I'll tell you what. You go into the Hanged Man and repeat what you said to Isabella. I think she'd be happy to set you straight."

"Okay. Well, if you won't tell me the dirty thing, then I want to hear about what happened with Fenris."

Marian froze, her heart dropping like a cold copper into a beggar's cup. She hadn't thought that affair was common knowledge, but if Merrill was asking about it, then everybody else in Lowtown was already well-acquainted with the salacious details.

"Happened? With Fenris?" she replied weakly. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You can't trick me, Hawke. I mean all the kissing against the wall! And then more kissing against the front door, because apparently, it was feeling neglected. And then, the two of you went into the house and he didn't come out until the next morning."

Marian gritted her teeth together, trying to decide how many different ways she would murder Varric the next time she saw him. Damnable dwarf and his so-called 'spy network', which was really just a gang of gossipy old drunks and Lowtown fishwives. Did they honestly have nothing better to do than stake out her house and report on her nocturnal activities?

Besides, they hadn't even gotten it right. First, they'd been kissing against the wall, then the door, then the wall inside the house – her fingernails had peeled back part of the old wallpaper - then they'd paused halfway up the stairs and she'd ended up clinging to the banister for dear life. It had been a very clumsy, circuitous route to her bedroom and Fenris nearly knocked down the family crest before she managed to find the door knob and prise open her chamber door. If the spies had to tell tales out of turn, by Andraste's flaming arse, she wished they'd tell the story properly.

"Ah, yes. You caught me, Merrill. Foiled again."

"So? Are you happy now? He's been sweet on you for a while, I think, and it's odd to see, because he's always so awfully mean and dour. Do you think he'll be nicer now?"

Marian shook her head. "Uh, don't count on it. We're...not together."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"It's okay. I'm alright with it. We're still friends. It just may be a little...awkward for a while."

"That happened to me once," Merrill said. "I got a little tipsy and ended up kissing the drunken man in the corner."

Marian paused, running through the catalogue of drunken men who loitered in corners in the Hanged Man. It was a long list. She decided to start with the less offensive candidate.

"You mean, Alistair? The one who keeps saying he's a prince?"

"Yes. We were playing the Spin the Bottle."

"Just the two of you?"

This seemed somewhat contrary to the spirit of the game.

Merrill nodded. "After that, things were a little strange. But I think he's forgotten all about it now. So that's good."

Marian wasn't sure what to think of this comparison. However, if Merrill had to suck face with one of the Hanged Man's diverse cast of drunken lowlifes, she was rather relieved it was Princely Drunk, Alistair. At least he had the raw potential to be attractive, which was much better than she could say for Bad Poet or that peculiar bearded fellow who shuffled around the hallway in front of Varric's room, muttering to himself.

"Hawke, is it true your mum's having a party?" Merrill asked. "Could I come?"

The elf's lilting accent made the word 'party' sound charming and she looked so enthusiastic at the prospect that Marian immediately decided there was no harm in having one more guest her mother wouldn't approve of. "Of course, you can."

"Oh, good. What do humans do at parties? Will there be a campfire?"

Marian arched an eyebrow. "In my house? Certainly not."

"I meant outside the house," Merrill explained. "We could roast marshmallows. When my clan had a celebration, we'd have a fire and everyone would tell stories. There'd be music too. It was very nice."

"Mother's idea of a party tends to be a little more...formal. But there'll be music and dancing and food or at least some sort of punch bowl."

"Punch...bowl? That sounds quite violent."

Marian smiled. She liked Merrill's imagination and expected that the event the elf was picturing was decidedly more entertaining than the one her mother would be hosting. "Sorry to disappoint you, but it's much less interesting than it sounds. It's just a great bowl of juice with fruit floating in it. There's never any fighting involved unless someone spikes it with booze."

Merrill nodded, wide-eyed, taking this in. "That's something of a relief. I don't think I'd want to go to party where people were just hitting each other in the face. At least at the Hanged Man, people play cards sometimes."

"I should warn you, it will be a little fancy. Would you like to borrow a dress?" Marian asked. "I have a green one that I think would suit you admirably. Of course, you'd probably need to go to the tailor and have it taken in here and there, but that's easy enough to manage."

"Is the same one Isabella borrowed last week? Because that one was very pretty."

Marian had to stop and think about this, because Isabella raided her closet all the time and she rarely troubled to ask permission. Maker only knew how her friend managed to cram her massive bosom into the same bodices that she wore, but Marian suspected that it involved incredible determination and a truly miraculous corset. "Um, yes? I think so."

"Then yes, please," Merrill said. "This is very exciting. I don't think I've ever worn a dress. It isn't terribly practical in the woods."

The Lowtown Market was bustling with shoppers and more than a few professional pickpockets, most of whom Marian knew by name and the relative quality of their work. Spotting Lady Elegant's stall, she and Merrill wandered over to say hello.

"Good afternoon," Elegant said in a silken voice. "How are you ladies?"

Merrill looked over the herbalist's wares with a discerning eye. "I'm fine. Well mostly. I have a blister on my foot. Guess it serves me right for not wearing shoes."

Elegant nodded at the elf's self-assessment, her eyes glazing over a little. She turned and shot Marian a knowing smile. "And you, Hawke...well, I hardly need to ask. I'd offer you a sample of my latest lyrium potion, but as I hear it, you're already practically rolling in the stuff."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Pretend all you like."

She sighed. "Was it Varric? It was Varric, wasn't it?"

"No..."

"Isabella?"

Elegant wrinkled her nose, giving an indignant flick of her blonde hair. "I don't associate with that...woman. And I use the term as loosely as possible."

Marian frowned. This probably meant Isabella had flirted with Elegant's husband or, worse yet, that Elegant's husband had flirted back. Hopefully that's as far as it had gone, but with the Rivaini, one could never be sure. She wasn't a great believer in wedding bands.

"Then where did you hear it?" she asked.

"In Chantry, if you can believe it."

Marian stared at her, aghast. "Dear Maker. Was this in Elphina's sermon? Am I a...cautionary tale?"

Elegant gave a soft laugh. "I shouldn't have been eavesdropping, but I was attending lauds prayers with my mother-in-law when we overheard your elven 'friend' baring his soul to that charming priest. Haven't they heard of confessionals in Tevinter? You should know that there were...quite a few people in attendance."

It took all Marian's discipline not to cringe. Her mother aspired to join that prim Chantry circle and they would all be scandalized to learn that Leandra's eldest girl had sacrificed her maidenly virtue to the elven squatter they spent their spare time drafting petitions trying to evict from Hightown. Of course, Marian's virtue or at least the one they considered 'maidenly' had fallen long before Lothering's walls, thanks to a handsome knight from Redcliffe and the relative seclusion of the widow Varlet's hayloft, but revealing that piece of information would only make the situation worse.

Becoming fuel for Lowtown gossip did not bode well for the party, but there was little to do except brazen the scandal out. Marian certainly wasn't going to play the part of the penitent sinner or the woman scorned. Besides, despite all the trouble that had come from it, Marian found it impossible to regret what had happened with Fenris. It'd been brief and dream-like, and yes, it had come as a shock when he'd walked away from her fireside, the door closing gently behind him - so tentatively, in fact, that for a few minutes, she had held back her tears in the hope that he might return. Yet, for a few tantalizing hours, she had felt blazingly alive and blissfully happy and she imagined that even one draught of something that intoxicating was better than nothing at all. Perhaps there was a price to be paid for such ardour, she reasoned. A flame cannot burn forever and in such cases, it might be better, kinder, to have it snuffed out quickly than to watch it gutter and see the candle melt down to a sad pool of wax.

"Who else knows?" Marian demanded.

Merrill ticked off the people on her fingers. "Me. Isabella. Varric. Aveline. Anders. And Justice. Does he count? And then, there's the man behind the bar and the lady who serves Varric drinks and..."

"In other words, nearly your entire circle of acquaintance," Elegant interrupted. "As well as some other people who've heard of your exploits and enjoy your unique brand of...celebrity."

Marian sighed. "What, does no one else in Kirkwall have _sex_?"

Elegant gave her a thin smile. "No one else in Kirkwall has Varric as a biographer. You must admit, you were rather creative in choosing your partner. An elf and a runaway slave –"

"Former slave," Marian corrected her. "Fenris is a free man and it's going to stay that way."

"Well, pardon_ me_. Did I happen to touch a raw nerve?" Lady Elegant cast a conspiratorial glance at Merrill, as if to suggest Marian were mad. The elf, however, was lost in thought and seemed to unable to appreciate Elegant's implication.

"No. I know you'd never condescend to do that."

"You do realize that in Tevinter, your elf is still a slave under law."

Marian fixed her with a cold glare. "Oh, Elegant, are you really going to argue semantics with me? That seems painfully ironic coming from a _woman_ who gads about town pretending to be a _Lady_. If Fenris were to follow your shining example, by next Tuesday, he'd be known as the Grand Duke of Minrathous."

"I'm married. That makes me –"

"You're married to John Elegant. He's not a lord. He's a damn barber. He shaves my Uncle Gamlen!"

Merrill giggled. "Your uncle shaves? Then why is he always so stubbly?"

Elegant pursed her lips together, her blue eyes turning icy. "Well, I never. You are most appallingly rude, hateful, spiteful creature...and don't even think of buying potions from me again. You and all your pointy-earred friends can go hang!"

Marian snickered. "We can't buy your elfroot potions? Oh, whatever shall we do?" She feigned distress, lifting her eyes appealingly to the heavens. "Maker preserve us if we can't have access to your wondrous herbal skills for surely we will die in horrible agonies, writhing and cursing and foaming at the mouth..."

Merrill looked at her as if she were off her nut. "We can just go to Sol's. His prices are better anyway."

Marian sighed. Daft girl always took sarcasm literally and thought serious statements were hysterically funny. "I know. That's why I don't give a tinker's damn about buying from Elegant."

"Oh. It's just that you sounded so upset. I thought maybe you'd forgotten."

Marian walked Merrill back home, with many warnings against meandering around the Foundry District. At last, when she was sure that her friend was tucked safely into her shabby rented house in the Alienage, Marian set off towards the Docks, planning to catch a boat bound out for the Gallows. She knew that Emeric would be there, shuffling around the courtyard and scribbling in his notebook as he waited for his dose of lyrium. On his best days, the man was eccentric and on his worst, he was barely coherent. She knew that many thought him paranoid and others said the lyrium had done his head in, but in her mind, if he was crazy, he was crazy like a fox. She'd seen the bones in the Foundry and Ninette's severed hand, and the theory that some of the guardsmen had posited, that they'd simply been collected by rag-pickers simply didn't make sense. With any luck, investigating Emeric's prime suspect would be able to provide her with some better answers or she'd be forced have to lock silly, foolhardy Merrill in her house and throw away the key.


	4. It's My Party

Preparations for the party were nearly complete and although Marian had initially entertained grave doubts about her mother's scheme, she had to admit that the estate looked wonderful. All the hearths in the house were aglow, crackling with warmth, and festive banners hung from the rafters of the main hall, which had been opened up for food, drinks and dancing.

Leandra bustled about in her new dress, adjusting the placement of the silver, questioning the minstrels about their taste in ballads and issuing orders to Orana, Bodahn and Sandal like a general preparing for battle. Occasionally, she would stop and assess her face in the mirror, checking the state of her smile or fussing with her elaborate coif. She showed no less concern for Marian's appearance and buzzed around her daughter, bee-like, making adjustments to her dark blue gown and occasionally sticking her with an ill-aimed pin.

"Ow! Mother..." Marian tried to fend off Leandra with her hands, but the older woman would not be deterred.

"Stay still." Her mother placed another pin at the back of the dress and stood back, admiring her handiwork. "There. You're such a pretty girl when you get out of that grubby armour. I just wish you'd done something more with your hair."

Marian sighed. She had little talent for intricate hairstyles and had simply let her dark tresses fall around her shoulders in their usual loose waves. "It's your party, Mother. You look lovely enough for the both of us."

"I look a fright, but it hardly matters." Leandra spun on her heel, rushing over to an ornate vase on the table. She began to pluck the flowers out and re-arrange them in a frenzy of agitation, although Marian could detect little difference between the initial grouping and her mother's new composition.

"I can't believe the florist sent harlot's blush," she fumed. "The connotations...I suppose that's what comes of sending a dwarf to get the flowers."

Her hand slipped and the vase shattered against the floor, spilling water and flowers everywhere. Delicate shards of glass glimmered around Leandra's feet.

"Damnation! Oh Maker! Why?" Leandra's hand shook, rising up to her withered lips and her face crumpled into tears.

Marian rushed over as fast as her fancy Orlesian heels could carry her, dodging the broken glass, and caught her mother in a tight hug. "Shhh. It's alright. You're just feeling stressed. This is important to you. More important than I ever realized."

"I just want...something to go right."

Marian's embrace around her mother tightened and she felt a pang of guilt, making the connection between the party and all that had happened in the last four years: the destruction of Lothering, Carver's death, the struggle to settle in Kirkwall and Bethany's induction into the Grey Wardens. She'd thought her mother's preoccupation with the party silly and little embarrassing, but it occurred to her that Leandra needed an outlet to express herself and these social arrangements provided her with some solace and distraction.

She eased back, examining her mother's teary face, still attractive, although lightly etched with wrinkles. "Come now. It'll be just fine." She paused, smiling, unable to resist a joke. "'Though it's your party and you can cry if you want to."

Leandra wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, straightening her spine and smoothing her brow. "There's no time for this. Our guests will be arriving soon..."

"Go and take a moment to relax," Marian said. "I can clean up this bother. There's a nice pewter vase in my room to put the flowers in."

Her mother limped up the stairs and sequestered herself in her room for a while, while Marian swept up the glass and took care of the flowers. Harlot's blush may not have been a flower with the most savoury reputation, but Marian liked its sweet smell and when she was done placing the bouquet in the new vase, she thought it looked quite appealing. Besides, after the party, she could pinch the remaining flowers from the vase and use them for potion ingredients. She still remembered the slums well enough to deplore waste or the loss of a silver.

Leandra came down as the first guests arrived, putting on such a charming smile to greet them that no one would have suspected that, mere minutes before, she'd been trembling and in tears. The musicians began to play a stately, measured tune, people started to drink and circulate, and there came more visitors through the door, with Bodahn struggling to announce each new arrival.

Aveline was as punctual as ever, arriving in the initial wave of guests. It was a rare surprise to see her out of her beloved armour. She wore a simple, muted green dress and the colour looked charming with her red-gold hair and freckled cheeks. Her headband, however, stayed firmly in place and she still galumphed through the crowd like a guardsman, flat-footed and bow-legged, hunching forward slightly to efface her height.

"Hello, Hawke. Some turn-out you have here. I hope it doesn't get disorderly."

Marian grinned, pouring her friend a glass of wine. "Because a party isn't a party without lots and lots of rules. Come, Aveline, you can relax a little. I promise not to violate any city by-law. Like the one about peeling an onion in the street or putting a straw hat on a goat."

Aveline hesitated a second before accepting the wine. She gave it a sniff and took a tentative sip, evidently torn between the urge to have a good time and the sense that it would be unseemly for the Captain of the Guard to have too good a time.

"You read the People's Laws of Kirkwall? I'm surprised at you, Hawke. You actually took a hint for once."

Marian deflected this with a cheerful shrug. "I was bored and it was there. Varric and I wanted to see how many different ways we could annoy you. Did you know he's broken more than a dozen statutes in the past fortnight?"

Aveline's mouth narrowed into a thin line. "Not a great shock."

"I suppose the real fun will be in guessing which ones. I'm not allowed to tell you, but they are varied and interesting."

"And likely trace back to one of his many 'cousins'. Shady little blighter."

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Marian was dragged away by her mother, who immediately began talking to her in an urgent whisper and fanning herself with her hands.

"He's here. You need to speak to him directly. I hardly feel capable."

Her mind flashed to Fenris and a thrill ran up her spine. She wasn't sure why she'd be nervous at the prospect of seeing him now, when he lived just a few houses over and came by for reading lessons almost every day. Perhaps it was the party. The sound of music and glasses clinking around her, the knowledge that they'd caused a scandal and the fact she was wearing a fancy and rather low-cut dress certainly left her feeling a little...exposed. Of course, it was silly to be self-conscious about the corset's effect on her cleavage when she'd bared a great deal more flesh just a few nights past and worse yet, maybe a bit of her soul.

It was a disappointment and yet also a relief when her mother ushered her over to Saemus Dumar and Sebastian. Suddenly, her mother's agitation made sense. The invitation Leandra had sent the Viscount's son had been an act of audacity and even hubris, ventured with very little hope of success. Saemus tended to avoid Kirkwall's elite social circles, even dodging out of official state events, and so his appearance at the household of a family of nouveau riche Fereldan refugees with noble pretensions would not just be considered a coup, but a miracle worthy of Andraste herself.

Marian glanced at Sebastian, wondering how much he'd had to do with this. He returned her questioning look with a faint smile and took a sip from his goblet, which she knew contained water rather than wine. Yes, he'd definitely had a hand in arranging this. Since they'd become friends, her social standing had immediately risen and people who'd once scorned her had suddenly thought she might be worth knowing. In addition to possessing the mystique of royalty, Sebastian had grown up with many of Kirkwall's young nobles, sharing tutors, households, brothels...there was a lot of history and a lot of blackmail material there and while he protested innocence of any interventions on her behalf, she had trouble believing him. He wore the role of the priest very well and was obviously dedicated to his faith, but often, when they strayed out of the Chantry and Elthina's line of vision, he'd reveal an ability to manoeuvre and manipulate that was downright princely. As Aveline argued, he was just a little too smooth to take at face value, and Marian was glad that he was on her side.

She nodded at Saemus, resisting the urge to tug the bodice of her dress higher on her chest. It wouldn't do any good anyway. Her mother had pinned everything in place, insisting it was the fashion and that every other noblewoman of marriageable age wore something just like it. Marian had not contested this, although she did not see herself as either noble or particularly marriageable, even if she was at the age when people were often married.

"It's good to see you. How have you been faring?"

"Better than the last time we met, thankfully," he said. "I never had the opportunity to thank you for defending me to Father. It isn't often that he hears a contradictory viewpoint about the Qun."

"That's a shame. It's useful to know one's opposition."

"Opposition," Saemus echoed, looking pensive. "So you believe that conflict is inevitable."

"It may be delayed. It may not have to happen in Kirkwall. But, yes. I've been studying the Qun. It preaches expansion and conversion. It doesn't respect other cultures or religions. As the Qunari see it, those who don't choose their Way are fit only to be mindless slaves or to die."

"Perhaps this isn't the time to talk about politics," Leandra said weakly.  
Saemus ignored this suggestion, too impassioned on the subject to back away. "If you've studied the Qun, then you must be aware how much the illusion of choice harms our society. Under the Qun, there is no poverty, no prejudice and every person is equal in his or her role. If they wish to convert the nations of Thedas to their ideas, I believe it is because they are disgusted by the injustices practised here with such impunity. If we might learn from each other..."

"It would be a very one-sided lesson." Marian quoted the Qun: "_Paarshanon ni vadin Qun, qun ni haar taran. _Consider nothing but the Way, for, outside the Way, there is only nothingness. You possess the benefit of an open mind, Saemus, but the majority of the Qunari do not."

"Besides the fact that they propound heresy," Sebastian noted. "I must disagree with your newfound interest, Saemus. The way of Andraste is a far nobler path than the creed of those brutal giants and it must be protected."

"Protected from what?" Saemus asked. "From the possibility that another truth might challenge it?"

Another voice inserted itself into the conversation. "There is no truth greater than that of the Maker and the blessed Andraste. That's something many people in this city would do well to remember."

Marian turned to see Cullen dressed in full templar armour and looking as solemn and mightily uncomfortable as she had ever seen him. If only they had invited Orsino, Meredith and good old Sister Petrice, then the awkwardness of the conversation would be complete.

Saemus frowned. "The templars presume too much if they think to control even people's thoughts."

"Oh come now, gentlemen," Marian said. "Let's not fight. Shall we drink some punch? Or we could play a rousing game of Guess the Apostate. Kirkwall is never short on entertainment."

This earned a laugh from Saemus and even Sebastian offered up a faint smile, but Cullen looked as earnest as ever, which made Marian want to pinch his cheeks until he blushed and set him up on a date with Isabella.

"That is not a matter for jest," he said and the tips of his ears turned red to match his auburn hair. From the way he spoke, Marian suspected he must once have had a stutter and as spoilsport though he was, this made him more likeable.

"I am well aware of the dangers posed by maleficars," she said. "Still, it's never good to take oneself too seriously. Templar, mage or Qunari, we are all wonderfully ridiculous, don't you think? It lends one a bit of perspective."

No one seemed appeased by this, least of all, Leandra whose expression had gone from one of utter mortification to lock-jawed anger. "You must excuse Marian. She is..."

"Quite refreshing, I think," Saemus said. "It's commendable to see someone treat Qunari as thinking, feeling beings on par with you and me, rather than as simply bogeymen to affright children."

This seemed to placate her mother somewhat and she was further gratified by Sebastian's compliments on the decor, the food and the quality of the music. Leandra appeared to be entirely charmed by him and he distracted her attention so thoroughly, that she didn't even notice when Saemus asked for Marian's dance card, claiming both the first and last dances of the evening. He'd just finished signing her card when she caught a glimpse of the latest arrivals. Merrill beamed at her, resplendent in the emerald-coloured gown that had been altered to fit her slight frame. Her escort was none other than Varric, who was whispering to her, likely trying to ease her nervousness with a story or better yet, dirty jokes that would make her giggle with shocked delight. Isabella slunk in behind them, low murmurs and outraged looks from the other guests trailing in her wake. The woman was drunk as a skunk, wobbling occasionally in the execution of her trademark strut and leaning on the shoulders of passersby for support when she needed it. The face that some guests made when she took this liberty suggested that she'd decided to skip her weekly bath in favour of more booze and a good screw. She was also quite pantsless.

Catching Marian's eye, Isabella wiggled her fingers in a childish wave and Marian raised her hand in an ironic salute, impressed at the sheer bravado. They certainly did know how to make a memorable entrance and if someone was going to kick them out, it wasn't going to be her. She suspected her mother would just fret quietly and let them be, whereas Bodahn would know better than to come between the Rivaini and free liquor or Varric and a willing audience.

Marian was about to excuse herself to go greet them when Leandra dragged her into another knot of people, each of whom needed to be introduced and small-talked half to death. Many of them had evidently heard about her little scandal and offered her snide smiles or made veiled allusions to the problem of 'unofficial residents' in Hightown with the hope of getting her flustered. If they expected her to be embarrassed or remorseful, they were sorely mistaken. In fact, Marian could barely trouble herself to pay attention. Instead, she found herself casting hopeful glances over people's shoulders, wishing that Fenris' lanky, stooped figure would materialize, like a dark speck on the glittering party facade. It was foolish, but she liked his frown better than most people's smiles and when he did look pleased, well, that was as quietly miraculous as the first real day of spring.

She would be sorely disappointed if he did not come, although she knew it was a distinct possibility that he'd prefer to spend the evening in his own sullen company than listen to the 'idle prattle' of his entitled neighbours. Perhaps he had finagled the invitation just to see if he was welcome, to test their friendship, rather than out of any desire to actually make an appearance. It was strange how the evening had morphed in her mind from Mother's party, a tedious social ritual meant to promote their newfound status, to an opportunity to encounter Fenris, one that just happened to include a few dozen of the city's most influential people.

Marian tried to re-focus herself on what the third son of the Comte de Launcet was saying, nodding her head and feigning a smile as he droned on about his family's Orlesian holdings. It would not do to be rude, although if Mother tried to pair her with the pompous bore she swore she'd run away and join the circus or failing that, the bleeding Qunari.

* * *

Fenris had only been at the party for a grand total of six minutes, but already he had a sneaking suspicion that Leandra had posted Sandal in the room with the sole purpose of shooing him away from the buffet table. Every time he ventured near the elegant canapés or a pyramid of little sandwiches staked with toothpicks and olives, the dwarf would come bumbling over and paw at him.

"No shinies for elf!"

He wondered if this rule applied to all elves or if it had been invented especially for him.

"Very well. I shall endeavour to stay away from...the shinies."

It wasn't as if he had any great desire to eat the food, which looked too rich for his simple tastes, but he thought he might loosen himself up with a glass of wine or two before he encountered Marian.

Sandal pointed to the lyrium etched along his forearm. "Enchantment?"

"Yes," Fenris said in his most patient tone. "Enchantment."

Scanning the room again, he caught sight of Marian. Framed amidst a circle of people, she looked completely at ease, her lips wearing the merest trace of a smile, the beginnings of a joke perhaps, one where only she knew the punch-line. He'd always been aware of her beauty, but on this occasion, it struck him anew and it was difficult to tear his eyes away as she swept her dark hair back from her face, her light eyes gleaming, her pale skin heightening the effect of her blue dress so that it felt as if she was revealing much more than she was. Yes. Enchantment.

Varric ambled over, clapped Sandal on the back by way of greeting and began picking over the canapés. "Broody, I never thought you'd show. And is it just me or have you changed things up a bit? The armour...well, you still look like a porcupine, but a slightly friendlier porcupine. And you've added some colour to your wardrobe. Red. Very bold. I like it."

He nodded at Marian's favour, tightly wrapped around Fenris' wrist and stuffed a deep mushroom cake into his mouth. Fenris knew the act of chewing would only shut him up momentarily, but he savoured the silence.

"So will you be venturing into pink next?" the dwarf inquired.

"No."

He was glad that Varric had not yet commented on the Amell family crest, which he'd commissioned to adorn the side of his armour. It'd seemed a good idea and he liked the sense of association with something, but he knew that his adoption of the crest would seem peculiar to outsiders and perhaps even to Marian herself.

"I'm not saying that as some kind of slight against you elves, either," Varric said. "Only real men wear pink. Even if they can't grow facial hair."

"Is there a reason why you're disturbing me?"

The dwarf gave a barking laugh. "Disturbing you? I'm not disturbing. I'm socializing."

"Would you please go socialize somewhere else?"

"Maybe later. Right now, it's fun watching you pine," Varric said. "Could be material for a story. A little something for the ladies, you know?"

He furrowed his brow, feigning bafflement. He took a certain perverse pleasure in playing the ignorant slave when it suited his purposes. "What? Pine? You confuse me, dwarf, with this talk of trees."

"Don't shit a shitter, elf. You know what I'm talking about. A certain lady named after a bird of prey?"

"Falcon? Eagle? I don't recall any women by those names."

Varric shook his head. "Anyway, I don't feel a lick of sympathy for you, friend."

"I don't recall asking you to."

"I get the feeling you enjoy the suffering, pointy-earred masochist that you are."

Fenris scowled. "If you're implying that I chose this, you are mistaken."

"You didn't? So, lemme guess, a demon took over your body and -"

Fenris cut the dwarf off in mid-sentence before he could weave a rambling tale around this absurd premise. "Sometimes, even when there is an option, there is no choice. I don't expect you to understand that."

"Alright then. Well, I don't. It's obvious you've got a soft spot for her. And she's enamoured with you, for some reason, you lucky sod. Probably because I'm not available. Anyway, all this drawn-out suspense crap – it only works in stories. Like a slaying a dragon with a letter opener."

This had actually happened in _Siege Hard: Stark Naked in Starkhaven_, in a scene so patently ridiculous that Fenris had been unable to countenance the rest of the chapter, skipping over to the controversial conclusion, in which Dominic blew up the office of the town magistrate/criminal mastermind, Leopold Van Doom.

"You presume too much."

"And I'm always right. It's funny how that happens."

"Are you offering me some assistance or are you here simply to mock me?"

"Mostly to mock." Varric poured himself a glass of Antivan brandy. "Of course, if you want to give me any relevant details, I'll take those as well. For the record."

"Not likely."

The dwarf shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well, I'm sure I'll manage to invent something."

"While you're doing that, would you mind pouring me a drink?"

"Eh, why not?" He poured him two fingers of the brandy and handed it over, which immediately put Fenris in a better mood.

He sipped the brandy slowly, ignoring the stares of the other guests. Some of them weren't even subtle and would turn right around, staring him up and down with as much self-conscientiousness or regard for his feelings as if he were an expensive vase or a curio cabinet. Fenris watched them behind veiled eyes, refusing to show them anything, even his contempt. He had the feeling it would only please them. In Tevinter, he'd seen children toy with circus animals by clanging sticks across the bars of their cages, trying to rouse them to anger. It'd given them such delight when they'd finally driven the beasts to growl or lunge forward against the steel fences. He wouldn't give Kirkwall's upper crust similar entertainment.

"So tell me, Varric, if you were in my position, what would you do?" he said. "I'm curious to know. You are so eager to poke your fingers into everyone else's business that I must assume that you know a vast deal more than the rest of us poor mortals."

"Ah, and the withering sarcasm returns. You know, I like that much better than the taciturn glowering," Varric said. "Now if I were in your shoes...or uh, elven lack thereof...I would either talk to the woman or move on. This whole brooding in the corner thing isn't all that efficient."

"I am not brooding. I am awaiting an opportunity to talk."

"Uh-huh."

"Do you wish me to walk over there, elbow my way in and interrupt some nobleman in mid-speech?" A ridiculous notion. He didn't fit in here; he knew that from the stares and nervous whispers. He'd already taken a risk infiltrating this event and he wasn't about to face further humiliation trying to shove his way into Marian's circle.

"It couldn't hurt. It's probably a dull speech."

"She seems to be enjoying it well enough," Fenris said bitterly, nodding his head towards Marian. She was smiling and clinking wine glasses with Saemus and another nobleman, a swarthy fellow who kept leering at her in a way that made Fenris' blood boil.

"Faking it for Mother. Believe me, I know that pained smile. It's me at the Dwarven Merchants' Guild every third Sunday."

"It would be wrong to intervene. I lost that right when I...walked away."

Varric considered this for a moment, slurping down the last of his brandy. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tell you what. I'll make you a deal."

Fenris couldn't quite manage to suppress his amusement. "A deal? How very... dwarven of you, Varric."

"Yes, yes. I guess I'm a Tethras, after all. I'll help you out, but it's going to cost you."

"You know, I'd never thought you to be so blatantly mercenary. Money-grubbing always seemed to be more Bartram's style."

"Did I say I wanted money? Has it ever been about money for me?" Varric smirked. "No, I want something better than that."

"What then?"

"A story. I know you have some. I've got a sixth sense about these things." Varric tapped his right temple as if to show where this wonderful intuition was lodged.

"Very well. Once upon a time, there was a bothersome little dwarf with no beard..."

"I meant a true story."

"That was a true story."

"A true story about you. I need some raw material."

Fenris pondered this, rubbing a hand over the light stubble on his chin. "Hm. If you lend me assistance, I shall tell you the story of the time Danarius attempted to make a manticore."

This tale was patently false but he felt justified in lying to a liar, just as he didn't mind killing murderers or seeing slavers enslaved. Besides, he wasn't about to tell Varric what little he remembered of his slave days, which was mostly degradation and grinding servitude, or share recollections of his days on the run, which had been all about desperation and survival, not careless derring-do.

Varric folded his arms over his chest, a greedy glint in his eyes. He rarely did anything reminescent of Bartrand but at that moment, Fenris could see the family resemblance. "A manticore? Hm. It would be better if it were a griffon, but alright. I'll bite."

"Accomplish the deed first. I shall tell you the story later. At the Hanged Man."

"You better not screw me over, elf. I don't like being played for a sucker."

"Fear not. You shall have your precious story."

"Very well then. Off I go to work my magic." The dwarf paused. "Well, not real magic. I know you don't endorse that. I'm referring to the verbal magic of my charm and wit, the transformative power of metaphor, the awe-inspiring power of a well-chosen adjective..."

"Get on with it!" Fenris snarled. He watched with mixture of curiosity and trepidation, as Varric set down his brandy glass and sauntered over to Marian.


	5. And I'll Cry if I Want To

"Varric!" Marian could hardly keep the relief out of her voice. "It's good to see you. I'd figured you and Isabella would be out getting sauced at the Hanged Man." It was wonderful that he'd found his way over, since she knew he'd invariably find a way to spice up a dying conversation.

"We were, 'til Daisy came by, all dressed up. I guess she had a case of the jitters."

Marian glanced across the room at Merrill, who was happily chattering away to Isabella and a pair of lascivious-looking noblemen. She made a mental note to tell Bodahn to lock up the bedrooms. She didn't put Isabella above engaging in lewd frolics in her mother's chambers.

"Merrill certainly does look pretty. And Isabella...well, she looks completely hammered."

"Yep. We were playing a drinking game with Bad Poet. Rivaini had to take a sip every time he ruined a metaphor."

Marian introduced Varric to Saemus but allowed the dwarf to present himself to the other nobleman, an Antivan whose name she could not recall; although he indulged in the most ridiculous flatteries she'd ever heard and stared into her eyes as if he was trying to mesmerize her.

"I was wondering, my lady, if I might see your dance card," Varric said. He said 'my lady' in a charming, but decidedly comic manner that implied the title was more than a little inflated.

Marian grinned, trying to conceal her embarrassment as she extracted the card from her bosom. Her dress didn't come with convenient pockets and slipping the paper down her bodice had seemed the practical solution. Saemus was kind enough to look away during this operation but the obnoxious Antivan leaned forward, trying to cast his eyes down the front of her dress to see if she had anything else stored down there. She slapped him away, pretending to be playful, but feeling irritated enough to put a little force behind it.

Varric chuckled. "I'm glad I didn't try to pick your pocket. I was guessing it was somewhere else."

She decided it was best not to ask where.

"So are you going to favour me with a dance, Varric?" Marian had never danced with a dwarf, but she was willing to try, even if she did have to bend her knees a little.

"No. No. My moves would be too much for you to handle. I'm working on commission. I don't suppose you have a pen in that dress as well?"

She laughed. "I'm afraid not. You've exhausted my bosomy bounty."

Saemus lent him one of his own.

"It seems there will be some competition for your company this evening," he told her.

"Oh, well, everyone must be nice to the hostess' daughter," she said. "It's the price they pay for the free booze."

Marian was unsure whether he was simply being tactful or if he'd really been hoping to spend more time with her. She'd figured that her opinions on the Qun would send him storming off in tizzy and when they hadn't, she'd been forced to revise her notion of him a little and admit that he wasn't quite so dunderheaded and childish as she'd first believed. He was sensitive and temperamental, educated by the best but with precious little experience to call upon – a rich man's only son, if she'd ever seen one - but she found his idealism rather charming, even if it was misguided. He had a puppyish enthusiasm about him that reminded her of Carver – another boy with so much to prove and so much weight piled on his back. She wondered if she could help him shake it off before it hobbled him or sent him leaping in to fight ogres.

Marian watched as Varric wandered over to an ink pot and scribbled something down on the card. He looked rather sly and apish, which made her distinctly nervous. She knew he'd never do anything outright cruel, but he could be unscrupulous on occasion and like Isabella, he thought nothing of taking advantage of "an insufficiently guarded opportunity", especially if it would yield him a good anecdote for later.

He returned, moments later, the slight smirk he'd worn earlier spreading into a full-fledged grin.

"You might want to let the ink dry before you put it back in its secret compartment," he said, shooting her a wink. "Anyway, I should probably get moving. I'm guessing it won't be long before Rivaini is going to need me to hold her hair back while she prays to the porcelain idol." He pulled a face. "The things I do for the sake of friendship."

"Do try to make sure she actually hits the chamber pot."

"I'll do my best."

"Thank you. You are a prince."

Varric gave her courtly bow before he turned away, no doubt pleased at the idea of himself as royalty. He certainly lorded over the Hanged Man as if the place was his court and his favourite barstool, a gilded throne.

As he walked away, she cast a hopeful glance down at her dance card and saw Fenris' name written in two of the middle slots. She grinned, half in triumph and half in disbelief at the idea that the elf would actually consent to do any dancing. Perhaps it was a joke, something Varric and Isabella had dreamed up over their cups. Turning, she scanned the room, looking for the elf's shock of silver hair.

"Good news?" Saemus asked.

"Yes. Or, well, peculiar news. The sort I often get from Varric."

The Antivan snatched the card from her hand. "I believe I shall dance as well. You will never forget a dance with... " His final words were garbled by his thick accent. Marian certainly hoped that his dancing would be more memorable than his name.

She was about to go off searching for Fenris when Bodahn came scurrying over, huffing and puffing. "Your friend – the one with the large, ahem, bosoms..." The dwarf gestured to his barrel chest, his hands tracing exaggerated bazooms in the air.

"Isabella."

"Yes, that one." Bodahn sucked in another long breath, trying to recover himself. The excitement of what he had witnessed combined with the effort of having to communicate it appeared to be too much for the fellow. "She's climbed up onto the roof with a couple of, erm, gentlemen and I am fearful that she may be up to no good."

Marian rolled her eyes, heaving a sigh of eternal martyrdom. Isabella was wonderful fun, but every so often, her proclivities for vandalism, bar brawls and public sex could be more trouble than they were worth. "Oh, she is most certainly up to no good. Well, I'll go get the broom."

"The broom?" Bodahn's credulous blue eyes widened until they were almost perfectly round.

"Yes. I'll bat her with it 'til she comes down. I don't intend to climb up there and see...whoever she is doing."

Bodahn nodded his assent and they headed for the stairs.

* * *

Fenris regarded Varric with barely concealed impatience, waiting to receive his report. The dwarf certainly took his time in answering, refreshing his glass of brandy and refilling his plate. His smug expression didn't offer Fenris much comfort either.

"What did you do over there?

"I solved your problem. I got you some alone time with her during the sixth song."

Fenris frowned. "During a song? You don't mean -" Among the many indignities of the evening, he had not envisioned dancing.

"Oh, yes, I forgot. I hope you know how to do the volta. The sixth song is always a volta."

He did not even know what a volta was, but it sounded Antivan and unnecessarily complicated. Probably with leaps and capers and other fanciful nonsense.

Fenris detested fanciful nonsense. Not only was it inefficient, but it was also exactly the sort of thing mages favoured, along with brightly coloured robes, garish amulets and theatrical gestures intended to invoke awe and wonderment.

"I am entirely innocent of this 'volta'. I assume it is a dance step?"

"A dance craze," Varric said. "All the kids are doing it."

"So, dwarf, instead of solving my problem, you've given me another."

Varric pretended astonishment. "What, you can't dance? I thought you practiced all day in the mansion."

Fenris knew he shouldn't have ventured that joke. He'd just been giving the dwarf ideas. "Indeed, but such dancing is unfit for public consumption. The world is not yet prepared for my genius."

"Ha! You know, you're not so bad. I might actually be starting to like you. Although I still want to hear that story. About the manticore. Does it have any action?"

Fenris nodded, improvising rapidly. "Once Danarius made his first version of the manticore, I was enlisted to fight it. To the death."

"And? Obviously you survived. Have any scars?"

"Yes." It wasn't strictly a lie, since he did possess many. Most of them were ancient history, faded brown lines or white roads of upraised flesh that blended in with the etchings of lyrium. He couldn't remember how many of them had been inflicted by others and so they seemed as natural to his body as birthmarks. It was possible that one of them had been caused by a manticore, although it was certainly not the most probable explanation.

Fenris satiated Varric's curiosity with a few more lies and dissimulations, amused at how easy it was to appeal to the storyteller's delight in fantasy. He knew better than to think Varric entirely believed him, but he also knew that the dwarf was unwilling to dismiss anything that he found more interesting than grim realities. And realities of slavery in the Imperium were grim, so vile that it made him seethe to think of them. Revising them into palatable fictions, turning the subtle, diabolically complex cruelties of his master into an exaggerated storybook villainy, Hadriana's complicity into the bumbling antics of a foolish sycophant, transforming himself into the unambiguous hero of the tale...there was something he enjoyed in that. He'd always heard people say that "the truth shall set you free", but perhaps there was room for a few lies as well.

* * *

The fifth dance of the evening was a celestina, an Orlesian fashion, which started off with partners before turning into two large circles of dancers and creating new sets of pairs to finish the figure. Marian had started the dance with the nameless Antivan, joined a circle where she found herself in the company of Merrill, Aveline and Saemus, then found herself facing a tall, angular nobleman with a markedly sinister look about him.

"You are Serrah Hawke, yes? It is a pleasure to meet you, at last." He seized her hand, twisting her arm up at an awkward angle and twirling her around.

She stared at him, trying to place him, until she recognized the Dupuis family crest emblazoned on his top button. It was the reclusive Gascard Dupuis, one of her most enigmatic neighbours. He was also Emeric's prime suspect in the murders of Ninette, Mharen and numerous other women who had gone missing from Kirkwall. Her mind turned to the abandoned Lowtown foundry and the gruesome discovery they'd made there. She thought of finding Merrill there, unarmed and alone, looking for tabbies.

"Gascard Dupuis. You have quite the reputation."

He gave her a chilly smile. "Indeed? I trust what you heard has been good?"

"Let's just say that your fame is only surpassed by your infamy. Have you managed to clear all of the city guards out of your house yet?"

The smile remained plastered on his lips but his grip on her fingers tightened. His clear grey eyes reflected everything and showed nothing. "By all appearances, yes. Still, I would dislike having any scurrying about behind the walls. I fear I shall have to fumigate."

Aveline would not like those sentiments. Marian looked forward to repeating them to her.

She took two steps to the side, coolly releasing one of Gascard's hands and spinning to the left, in line with the prescribed motions of the dance. "That might be a wise. It is nice to have privacy. I always find it so irritating to be interrupted in the midst of dismembering corpses."

Gascard pulled her back with nearly enough strength to wrench her arm from its socket. His tone was controlled, with only the faintest hint of menace. "I had heard you were a foolhardy woman, Serrah Hawke, but I had been inclined disbelieve it." He grasped her hands in his own, looking down at them with a sneer. "For a fighter, you are rather lovely though. Such soft skin. Such fine hands."

The memory of finding Ninette's hand in that blood-soaked sack, of prising the wedding band off her clammy finger, the sound of little bones crunching under her boots...

Her knee jerked up and struck him in the groin, her foot slamming down on his instep. She liked to think that the fashionable Orlesian heel would hurt more than a boot tread.

Gascard released her hands, yowling, and leaned forward, doubling over to shield himself and offering his face up to her right hook. She struck him between his nose and his upper lip, not enough to draw blood, but it certainly looked as if it hurt, the skin reddening and starting to swelling.

She wiped his saliva off her knuckles. "I also have very admirable fists."

"You Fereldan bitch!"

Many of the party guests had missed the punch, but they didn't miss this. Marian looked around, rather pleased with herself. If they wanted her to be scandalous, she would certainly deliver.

"Yes, I'm the Fereldan bitch. I'm so pleased, Gascard, that we finally know each other. You'll be seeing a lot more of me very soon."

Gascard made a grab for her legs, trying to topple her, but Marian darted back and someone else caught his arms from behind, rather roughly, it seemed, because the nobleman flinched, locking his jaw. It took her a moment to realize the arms that gripped the murder suspect were covered in intricate patterns of lyrium.

The leaf-like patterns began to glow pale blue. "You will leave. Now."

"Guard-Captain? Where is the Guard-Captain?" Gascard called. "I wish to file a charge of assault against this woman."

Marian saw Aveline stride across the room, hands clenched at her sides. She looked exasperated and weary of policing her friends' excesses, and Marian expected that she would shortly be on the receiving end of a very long lecture about impulse control and the idea of 'innocent until proven guilty'.

"What is the matter here?" Aveline cast a stern look at Fenris and Gascard. "Release him. Immediately."

Freed from Fenris' grip, Gascard pointed a bony finger at Marian. "This vile shrew, I want her arrested. She punched me."

"And with good cause, no doubt," Fenris said.

Marian doubted he had the least idea why she'd done it, but she was pleased nonetheless at the back-up, which she knew she was not going to get from Guard-Captain Aveline.

"I wanted her arrested. For assault," Gascard said.

Aveline paused for a moment, glancing at Marian, her expression wavering between concern and annoyance. Marian knew her friend was debating whether she should cuff her right then and there and escort her down for a three-day vacation in the brig. It wasn't so bad down there, really. Isabella had pulled a two-week sentence standing on her head and Marian flattered herself that she could handle anything the Rivaini could manage.

"You may press charges," Aveline said, at last, "but I should warn you, Messieur Dupuis, that any criminal prosecution would involve many guards stopping by your home, asking a great deal of questions." She paused, allowing this threat to sink in, before she added, "About this incident, of course."

Marian smiled, relieved that her mother would not have to watch her hauled out of the party by guarded escort. Dear, sweet, wonderful Aveline. She would have to find some way to repay her. Perhaps some shiny new metal plate? One of those Mabari statues she was so fond of?

Gascard was not so pleased by the Captain's pronouncement. His Orlesian accent intensified along with his indignation. "I'd prefer to avoid any further interactions with your guardsmen. They are so ill-mannered and brutish. As a courtesy to Leandra Hawke, I will drop the charges."

"That settles it then," Aveline said. "Messieur Dupuis, you may go home now. Stay out of trouble. All of you." She gave Marian a particularly menacing look, as if to remind her that she was not yet free and clear. She would have to explain herself, if not that evening, then later in the Keep. That was an unpleasant prospect. There was nothing more likely to ruin a perfectly lovely morning than an interrogation in the Guard-Captain's office, especially when one didn't have the answers she was seeking.

Fenris levelled a glance at her, his voice a low rasp. "Did he...interfere with you?"

She shook her head. "No. Not in the way you're thinking."

His green eyes showed relief and even a measure of humour. "Hm. You might have mentioned that sooner. I was about to snap both his arms."

"He deserves worse than that."

"Why?"

She stepped closer to him, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Do you remember that hand we found? Three years ago?"

"We live violent lives, Marian, but it's rather difficult to forget those manner of...details."

"Emeric thinks that man, Gascard Dupuis, is Ninette's killer, that he's the one who's been murdering all those women. From the conversation I had just had with Messieur Dupuis, I'm inclined to believe it."

"A blood mage, then," Fenris said. "Yes, he seems the type. They are snivelling creatures once you've trapped them in a corner."

"Later, we shall have to pay Dupuis a visit, I think. I don't like the idea of living next-door to a mass-murdering misogynist, thank you very much. It drives down property values."

"Hm. I also drive down property values," he noted.

She smirked. "Good point. Perhaps I should assemble a mob of concerned citizens with torches and pitchforks. I'm sure you could lead us on quite a merry chase."

A hundred stories seemed to flash behind those eyes of his, but he merely smiled. "You have no idea."

The sixth song began to play, a volta. She arched an eyebrow at him. "I believe this is your dance. If you wish to take it."

"Well, uh, certainly. I will." He stepped forward, taking her hands. His skin was dry and surprisingly warm, just as she remembered. This had surprised her at first, since, from afar, he had such an icy look. She enjoyed the feeling of his hand enveloping hers, although it was clear he had never seen anyone do the volta - he was supposed to hold her waist. She didn't plan to mention this, but turning, he noticed the other couples on the floor and quickly adjusted his posture. His hands went to her waist and she felt a pang of desire so fierce she had to close her eyes to will it gone.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I never learned how to do this. I haven't learned...a great many things."

She was suddenly very conscious of his eyes on her face and how carefully his gaze was skimming around the lower neckline of her bodice. "It's alright. We can just stay like this. Shuffle our feet a little bit. That's what most people do."

"Perhaps, but that seems a sorry excuse. This crowd of yours seems to want another performance." He tilted his head to the right. She looked over and spied a gaggle of her mother's Chantry cronies gawking at them and whispering behind their hands.

"Those darling old hags? Let's not try too hard. Their pious hearts might not survive another cruel shock."

"Now you're just encouraging me," he said. "I can manage a dance. Command me and it is done."

She smiled at his seriousness. "We aren't going into war here."

"Are we not?" he deadpanned. "I was unaware."

"Alright, you asked for it," she said. "Walk me back three steps, then two steps to the left."

He pressed against her, his posture straightening from its usual feral stoop as he marched her backwards. Despite his complete ignorance of the steps, he was a strong lead, which she always appreciated in a partner. While Marian would never have surrendered control on the battlefield, she was quite happy to do it on the dance floor.

"After the two steps to the left, you let one beat of music pass and then you, um, you have to lift me..."

He looked remarkably unfazed by this. "That shouldn't pose trouble."

They passed through the last steps, then his hands became snug about her waist and he lifted her, her body sliding up against his, her breasts nearly brushing against his face in the course of the ascent. He was only supposed to hold her for three beats, but he held on for several seconds more, as if to reinforce his point, before gently letting her slip back down to the floor.

She twirled away, glad that the steps gave her a pause to recover from such closeness. Perhaps they had been invented for just such a purpose. When she whirled back towards him, her blush had faded enough to simply pass for the flush of exertion.

"You have it," she said, smiling. "We just keep repeating those steps."

He shrugged his shoulders, guiding her in a repetition of the first steps. His gait became more comfortable, swaying slightly and he pulled her nearer, close enough that she was certain he could hear her heart hammering against her chest. She looked down, distracting herself by observing a vein in his neck that kept pulsing, disturbing the pattern of his markings.

"Varric made this sound arduous. I was expecting a greater challenge."

"You're a quick study," she said. "Mind you, the biggest challenge is to stay on beat."

"I expect you've already been informed of this, but you look very well this evening."

Very well? She understood his intention, but he really needed to work on his adjectives. She avoided his searching gaze. "Thank you. I am in excellent health."

"I wasn't alluding to your health. What I meant to say is that you look...beautiful. And well, very much in your element."

"You're looking dapper yourself," she said, with exaggerated cheer, trying to deflect the compliment. "Did you change your armour? Something seems different."

"My armour was damaged. I had it refitted."

"I see. And with a new crest." Her hand went to the Amell family crest buckled at his hip.

Fenris shifted his hip back before she could touch the crest. "Yes. Think of it what you will."

He said this in a defiant tone, as if daring her to mock him, just before seizing her to his chest and lifting her again, as the music crested. When it came time to set her down, she brushed so close to him that her skirts crinkled up, flashing bare legs, since she had refused to consent to the fashionable silliness of itchy stockings.

Marian adjusted her skirts and threw herself into the next part of the dance with renewed energy, if only to spite him. If he thought to unnerve her, he was sorely mistaken.

"As you wish, Fenris. I ask no explanation. I never do. I'm pleased that you should think it worth wearing."

He paused, looking somewhat abashed. "I do."

A pained silence ensued and Marian found herself fumbling for a topic. "Have you been enjoying the party?"

"I would enjoy it a little more if your mother's objectives weren't so...contrary to my interests."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes narrowed. "Her designs can't have escaped you."

"You make her sound like some wicked black spider spinning plots. She isn't Sister bloody Petrice."

His voice acquired a cold edge. "No, she makes that woman look subtle. She's put you on display and now she's entertains bids from any pompous fool with a title and a treasury."

"Excuse me?" She pulled away from him, but his grip was firmer than she had expected.

"I'm sorry. I spoke harshly. I did not intend to imply -"

"That I'm a prostitute to my mother's ambition? That I'm being sold?"

"Just that...there is a sort of slavery in these conventions. Especially for a strong-minded woman. That you should marry and tie yourself to one of these creatures" – he cast a withering gaze over the party guests – "and make him master of your fate – it is a sickening prospect."

"Is it marriage you object to or just the possibility of me getting married?"

"I don't know. Both, perhaps."

"Well, as it happens, I wouldn't mind getting married...to the right person. The right person would be a partner, not a master. There's nothing wrong with wanting to share your future with someone else."

He seemed too busy fuming to offer a response, so she decided to press her luck and see how long it would take before she could draw an answer.

"That Amell family crest you're so fond of, it comes from marriages and alliances, generations of them. And lest you forget, I'm the only one in the family still capable of begetting legitimate heirs, so perhaps I ought to be thinking..."

The word 'begetting' made him snap to attention and she knew 'legitimate heirs' had an added sting. In Ferelden, at least, the children of mixed-race pairings were almost always bastards.

"I see. How practical of you."

The song finished and the music shifted over to a slower, courtlier pace. Marian was vaguely aware that she had promised this song to someone else, but since she did not see the man hovering about, she planned to finish her argument. "I'm not the one who ended it, for that reason or any other. You're being damnably unfair."

"Yes. I am. I know it."

She softened her voice. "You've said your piece. And I've said mine. Let's just leave it be."

"_Qi noni homus in qua stanzi degna di vei._"

"Can you repeat that in the common tongue? Whenever you start into the Tevinter, I get the sneaking feeling you're cussing me out."

"Perhaps you should study Tevinter. It's a pleasing language. Very descriptive. And the curses are... most satisfying."

She shook her head. "Don't toy with me. What did you say?"

"'There is not a man in this room who is worthy of you.'"

"That isn't true. There's at least one. No – two. And a half."

"A half?" He looked puzzled.

"Well, yes. You and Seb and Varric. He's the half."

"Because he's short."

"Yes. Although if you tell him that, you're off my 'worthy' list."

He chuckled. "Very well. I will not inform the dwarf that he's a fraction."

Fenris cast his eyes downward, seeming to forget that he was taking pains to avoid peering down her dress. Apparently, he got quite an eyeful, because he gave a start, blinked, looked again and fixed his gaze back on her face. Marian raised her hand to her lips to keep herself from laughing aloud.

"I am aware that I am not an easy man to deal with," he said. "I shouldn't have said anything, Marian. You're wise to seek some measure of...contentment."

"Thank you."

They danced in silence for a minute, circling each other warily, when a nervous nobleman crept forward and tapped Fenris on the shoulder. Marian recognized him as the one who'd signed up for the seventh dance, a jittery weak-chinned fellow who appended his every statement with a manic little laugh.

The elf spun around and stared at the intruder. "Yes?"

"May I cut in?" Cue the nervous giggle.

Fenris glanced at him, appearing thoroughly unimpressed. "No." He turned back around, clutching Marian's hands a little more tightly than she would have liked.

She disentangled her fingers from his, taking a measured step back from him. She wasn't exactly eager to go sashaying around the ballroom with an overgrown cuckoo, but she certainly wasn't about to give the elf the satisfaction of slighting the poor wretch. He was arrogant enough as it was.

"Actually, it's his dance, Fenris."

His mouth twitched. That was the closest he came to showing anything – disappointment, annoyance, frustration. "I see. The dance card. Yes. Of course."

He turned to the other man, mustering up an expression of good grace or as close as he ever came to it.

"Try not to step on her feet."

With that piece of sage advice, Fenris gave a curt bow and stalked away. It was the last Marian saw of him that evening.


	6. Cruel Blade

The ensuing days were a succession of disappointments, both great and small. Marian had anticipated that her mother would reprimand her about her antics at the party, but instead, Leandra avoided the subject, circling around her as easily as a swift current of water. There were times when Marian would catch her mother levelling a reproachful look in her direction, but as soon as their eyes met, Leandra would turn away, busying herself with a household task that might as easily have been done by Bodahn or Orana. Marian found this baleful silence more painful than anything that'd ever passed between them, worse than even the weeks when it'd seemed that Leandra blamed her for Carver's death. She would sooner have her mother rail at her than feel this icy distance between them and yet it seemed there was nothing she could say to repair the breach.

There was only one reliable subject of conversation between them now and that, surprisingly, was Saemus Dumar. When he visited the house, her mother was in good spirits, suddenly chatty and solicitous, willing to do just about anything to put their guest at ease or give them greater privacy. She seemed to be under the impression that the Viscount's son was courting her daughter, which Marian thought to be a most unlikely prospect. She wasn't sure why Saemus had started loitering around her house, but he was more prone to debating politics with her than flirting and she never had the sense that he saw her as anything more than a potential new friend. In his presence, however, Leandra actually seemed proud of her; when they were alone, Marian couldn't shake the sense that her mother would've preferred that she'd gone to the Grey Wardens and that Bethany, sweet, pretty and pliable, had taken her place in Kirkwall.

Her investigation of the Dupuis mansion had been another cruel disappointment. It'd all begun with such promise, shades and demons materializing at the estate entrance, practically lining up to be put to the sword. Her daggers had flashed through the chill night air, jabbing into the lumpen pink flesh of an abomination. She'd barely managed to pry her weapons from the mangled corpse, when she'd had to bolt back from a charging rage demon, a wave of heat scorching across her cheeks.

Fenris had stepped in then, swinging Oathbreaker with bone-breaking fury, and she'd shifted around to the creature's flank, digging her knives into the embers at its back and then deeper, into the charred skin beneath. The combat had been quick and brutal, just the antidote for too many evenings in Kirkwall high society. It was when the old woman had run off and they'd finally set to interrogating Dupuis that everything fell to pieces.

"You're making a grave mistake," Dupuis said, backing into a corner. "I only wish to avenge my sister..."

Marian pinned his hand to the wall, stabbing her dagger through his palm and into the hard wood behind it. Dupuis bit his lip to suppress a whimper as blood trickled down his wrist and onto the cold floor below.

"Try again," she said. "You're not the family values type, Dupuis."

"I told you, I didn't kill those women. The blood magic, it was only to find the killer."

"Always an excuse," Fenris muttered behind her. "They always pretend to be victims."

"Perhaps he's telling the truth," Sebastian said. "Don't demean yourself with torture, Hawke. Give him to the Templars. They'll know what to do with him..."

"You mean, they'll know how to kill him and they'll manage it before he gets in a talkative mood," Marian said, still glaring at Dupuis. "I'm sorry, Gascard, but death isn't a mercy you've earned yet."

She pushed her second dagger through his other hand, twisting the blade deep into the wall. This time, he gasped, blood bubbling from his pierced palm, flesh opening under the blade like a screaming mouth.

"Now, my dear Messieur Dupuis, without any further ado, pray tell where you put the bodies."

"You'll find out soon enough," he hissed. "He'll toss your corpse with them, on the midden heap."

"Indeed? 'He'? And who is this imaginary friend of yours? He must be a better fighter than you."

At this, Dupuis clammed up, refusing to offer another word, no doubt conscious that he had revealed too much. Fenris offered to take a turn with him and knowing his feelings towards blood mages, Marian couldn't refuse him the opportunity.

"You don't need to do this," Sebastian protested. "It's one thing to kill an enemy, but this is...barbarism. It's a stain on the soul..."

The poor man seemed to think he and his blessed Andraste exerted much more influence over Fenris than they did. Marian felt a little sorry for him. Such a starry-eyed idealist. A rather hypocritical one, too, since she knew he'd enjoy seeing Dupuis dead, just as he'd savoured the news that the Flint Mercenary Company had been reduced to a pile of well-dressed corpses. Sometimes a little judicious killing really did make the world a better place and Sebastian knew it. He just didn't like to dirty his hands.

Fenris brushed past the priest, barely troubling to look at him. "Go back to your Chantry and keep your conscience clean."

"You harm yourself as surely as you hurt him," Sebastian persisted. "No good can spring from unjust deeds."

"I wouldn't call this any great injustice," Marian noted.

She was thankful when Varric grabbed the priest's elbow and started ushering him out of the room. "Look, I'd prefer not to watch Broody disembowel this fool either. Not for any great religious convictions, mind you. I'm just hung-over and feeling a tad queasy. So, hey, why don't we go out and get some fresh air, huh? Or better yet, a stiff drink. Nothing like the hair of the Mabari that bit you."

"Varric, you know I don't partake."

"Oh, come on, live a little. The ale at the Hanged Man is good for you, Choir Boy. It's practically holy water."

By the time they'd made their exit, Fenris' hand had already phased through Dupuis' stomach and appeared to be slowly unravelling the man's intensines. His markings pulsed with a ghostly blue light. "Name your accomplice."

"No...accomplice," Dupuis had said, through gritted teeth. "My...master, cur."

"The name of your master. Tell us."

"The Divine Justinia."

"Witty." Fenris took a sharp jab at Dupuis' insides. Marian didn't know what he hit, but from the way Dupuis yowled, it must have been something sensitive and probably quite vital to his continued survival. "Give us a name, fool."

"I could give you many names, filthy elf. You and your _putain_."

Marian wished she'd thought to cart along her Common-to-Orlesian dictionary. She didn't know what that word meant, but she knew it was directed towards her and from the expression on Fenris' face, she could tell it was not a compliment.

"Hmm, shall I take a kidney?" Fenris wondered aloud.

Marian had difficulty discerning whether this was a serious question or one of his rare forays into sardonic humour. She answered anyway, knowing he wasn't likely to get much of a response from Dupuis.

"Couldn't hurt. Or rather, it _could_ hurt, but he has two of them, so it shouldn't kill him."

Dupuis writhed in pain as Fenris dug deeper into his torso, rooting around until he grasped what he was seeking. He ripped out the organ and flung it away in disgust, pausing only to smile at their prisoner's horror. "It's surprising how many parts one can lose and still keep breathing. But I suppose you knew that. Blood mages always seem to possess such a wide-ranging anatomical knowledge."

Dupuis managed to muster up a sneer. "My master...will take...my vengeance." He muttered something else, too low for Marian's hearing, before he hocked back his throat and spit on Fenris, a fat gob of saliva landing on the red scarf wrapped around his wrist.

Marian saw the look of murderous fury cross Fenris' face and she rushed to grab his arm. Her intervention came too late. Dupuis' neck snapped to the side, his skull slamming against the wall, shattering bone and leaving the wood damp with gore.

Fenris dropped the corpse and turned away, apparently disinterested in his own handiwork. He wiped off the red scarf with one of his steel talons, his lower lip curling in revulsion.

"Damn it," Marian cursed, pulling her daggers from the wall. "Damn it. I hope you enjoyed that."

"I did." Having cleaned the scarf to his satisfaction, Fenris set about scrubbing the blood spatter off his face.

"We needed that information and you threw it away for nothing. Because he spit on you."

"That wasn't my reason."

"Then what was your reason? He said something to insult your delicate sensibilities?"

"It hardly matters," he said. "The mage is dead."

"And now, thanks to your marvellous self-control, we haven't the faintest idea who his master was. More women will die and we have no way to stop it."

"He wouldn't have told you anything. He was prepared to take the knowledge to his grave."

She sighed, shaking the blood off her daggers and thrusting them back into their leather holsters on her back. "Such wonderful certainty you have. I wish you'd lend me some."

"This isn't the first time I've conducted...inquiries of this nature. He was done talking."

She frowned, raking a hand back through her tangled hair. "It's done anyway. No use crying over spilled blood."

They ransacked the house, searching for clues to the identity of Gascard's master, but to no avail. It was evident that whoever the man was, he was a ruthless and powerful mage, but beyond that, there was no telling whether he lived in the depths of Darktown's sewers or if he was ensconced in another prominent Hightown estate. Finally, faint rays of daylight began to seep through the windows and they were forced to give up the search. Dawn had barely touched the city and the houses were still merely dense shadows edged in yellow light. Marian strode back towards her manor, irritated that Fenris seemed intent on dogging her heels. He might have considered it chivalrous to march her to her door, grim-faced and dutiful as any soldier, but she found it invasive and more than a little condescending.

"There may be a mad killer on the loose whom we don't know the least thing about, but I'm still perfectly capable of surviving a walk across the square," she informed him.

"As you say." Fenris shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps I simply enjoy following you."

"Not nearly as much as you enjoy snapping mages' necks."

"Indeed. I find that most pleasurable. A source of great satisfaction," he said darkly, likely picturing a certain Tevinter magister he'd like dead and all the various ways he might go about managing it.

Marian reached the narrow staircase leading up to her door, but instead of doing the sensible thing and climbing the steps, she spun around to face him. "You know, I'd started to wonder if you'd forgotten where I lived. You haven't been coming for your reading lessons."

"You noticed."

"What can I say? I missed your sunny disposition," she said. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me why?"

He arched a black brow at her. "One doesn't have to be particularly literate to note the Viscount's carriage in front of your house. I saw you were otherwise occupied."

"That's hardly an excuse. He's come by twice and you've missed four lessons."

"You kept count." Fenris sounded surprised at this, although she didn't know why. Of course, she'd kept count. He'd stood her up on four separate occasions and on two of those times, she'd sat dutifully in her study, book in hand, waiting for him to arrive and feeling hopelessly stupid when, an hour later, he still hadn't made an appearance. "In that case, I may attend the next one," he said.

She rolled her eyes at this notable piece of arrogance. "Don't go doing me any favours."

He corrected himself. "I _will_ attend the next one. With gratitude. Provided the Viscount's boy isn't there to trouble you."

"He isn't a trouble. He's a guest."

Fenris snorted. "I'd forgotten your willingness to suffer fools."

"I don't just suffer them. I adore them," she shot back. "Why, I think I'll even marry one, provided he's rich enough. Mother will love that."

"And I would loathe it." He sounded miserable, every trace drained from his voice, although she'd thought to goad him to anger. She preferred to grapple with his rage – it was much more invigorating than this unaccustomed melancholy. It was not one of the better parts of her nature, but there were times when she enjoyed getting him riled up, just for a rush and because she liked knowing that she could pluck up his strings and make him dance whenever she willed it.

"You needn't worry," she told him. "I won't ruin my life just to spite you. I take little pleasure in causing you pain."

"Yet you do it so well."

"That dagger slices both ways, doesn't it?"

Marian shivered slightly in the chill of morning, watching his face, the hard line of his mouth and the unexpected softness behind his eyes. She used to think he'd have been well-suited to blue eyes, pale ones as cold and cutting as shards of ice, but his were green instead, gold-flecked, like summer leaves. Sometimes, he was kind and those eyes could be misleading. They had a way of hooking her in even when she knew she should have despaired of the fight.

A wren sang a few plaintive notes from the rooftop, before fluttering away, across the still courtyard and over the chimneys of the houses beyond. Fenris' hand inched towards her, as if he meant to touch her, but at the last moment, he seemed to reconsider this and it fell back to his side, flexing into a fist.

"Yes, I suppose it is a double-edged blade," he said. "And now we both get to bleed."

He turned away first, as he always did, muttering a curse under his breath. She let him walk away, her face showing nothing, not frustration, not despair, not the recognition that this pain she'd carried with her for days was like the slow seep of blood pooling beneath her armour. It was a cruel blade they wielded against one another.

Marian had thought to explain the situation to Emeric the next day and see what might be done to track down Dupuis' mysterious associate, but the templar had left the Gallows for an alley in Lowtown, apparently under the impression he was meeting her. She arrived to find a battered corpse and a half-dozen demons running riot through the street. It seemed that Dupuis' master had thwarted her best efforts yet again. It was yet another disappointment to file away with the all others.

A few days later, Saemus made his third appearance at the estate, but Marian's mother was not around to bask in the golden glow of having a Dumar to tea, having gone off for her weekly visit to Uncle Gamlen's. She would've been disappointed to miss it, since Saemus arrived in the Viscount's gilded carriage again for everyone on the street to see and he wore an ornate blue satin doublet that must have cost more than most Lowtown houses. Marian had never felt any great attraction to men dressed in showy finery, but she had to admit the shiny fabric exerted a bizarrely hypnotic power, rather like gazing into the noontime sun.

"Since we find ourselves alone, I was hoping we might discuss something of a rather...delicate nature," Saemus said, fidgeting with his teacup. The cup was one of Leandra's favourite pieces of china, Orlesian porcelain and painted with the image of a goldfinch perching on a sprig of wisteria. It was absurdly small in his clumsy hands and her mother would have cringed when, moments later, in his agitation, Saemus snapped off the finely curved handle.

"Oh, damnation." Saemus thumped his forehead with the flat of his hand. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you that I break things. Especially when I'm in a state. As I am now. Best not to hand me any priceless vases."

She smiled, picking up the cup and the broken handle and putting them aside on the mantle. "You needn't worry. The teacup was hardly priceless. I expect it can be glued back together."

While she went scurrying around, searching for another sturdier teacup to offer him, he attempted to re-introduce the discussion. "Marian, it occurs to me that we have a few things in common and I wonder if we...might not come to an understanding. Negotiate an arrangement of sorts."

She stooped down, finding a collection of old cup and a cracked kettle on the lowest shelf of a cabinet. Dusting off one of the cups, she returned to the table and poured her guest some more tea. From the looks of him, he would have done better with booze. "Saemus, you're beginning to sound like a representative from the Dwarven Merchants Guild. Do you need a loan? Are you trying to sell me swampland in Par Vollen?"

"No. On both counts. Perhaps it's best just to explain my situation from the beginning." He heaved a jittery sigh and rolled back his shoulders, trying to ease his evident stress. "You see, it occurs to me that you and I are both expected to fulfil certain obligations...obligations that are quite contrary to our natures. We seem to get along well and you're a woman of rare gifts, someone who might do well with a little power. I thought we might help each other..."

It dawned on her that this was starting to sound a lot like a proposal. The most awkward and unflattering proposal she'd ever heard, certainly, but a proposal nonetheless. "Help each other? How precisely?"

"Well, um, we'd marry. It'd be beneficial to both of us."

She paused, taking a long sip of her tea and trying to compose herself. "Well, it's clear you aren't in love with me. You get more romantic when you're blathering on about Qunari."

"Uh, yes. You noticed."

"You're not precisely subtle. So you... and Arshaad?" She'd thought there was something oddly impassioned about his speech over the dead qunari.

"No. We were simply companions," he said. "If there was any feeling beyond that, it was simply on my side."

Marian raised her tea-cup, trying to conceal her amusement. "So, in other words, I'm definitely not your type."

"You're a pretty woman. I can appreciate it on an aesthetic level. But yes. Not my type. I favour males. Often tall ones. Occasionally with horns." He smiled at this, but it was a smile that concealed more than a hint of bitterness.

She wondered how much he understood of the Qun's ideas on sex. It wasn't a creed that looked kindly on homosexuality or manner of desire that wasn't strictly controlled and used for the purposes of procreation. If he might do better with Tal-Vashoth, but even they were brutal creatures and she couldn't imagine any of them being gentle enough with him to avoid breaking every bone in his body. In fact, even considering a human having sex with a Qunari was...distressing. It made her back hurt.

She cradled her chin in her hand. "So tell me again why you want to get married?"

"The Dumar line rests with me. I suspect Father has known about...my circumstances for some time, but he will not acknowledge it. As he sees it, this is the burden of rule and perhaps he's right. It's not ideal, certainly, but under the right circumstances, it wouldn't have to be objectionable."

"Couldn't you just run off again?" she asked. "To the Wounded Coast? Further, even? I see no reason why you should have to live a lie and I promise this time I'll know better than to drag you back."

"I live a lie just by remaining in Kirkwall. I have no great love for this city and yet I will be compelled to rule it, if only to keep it out of Meredith's iron grip. You must understand that. The templars grow in power every day."

She frowned, examining the painted peonies on her teacup. He was right about Meredith and the templars. She wouldn't like to see their faction grow too powerful and if the Dumar line fell, they'd likely place one of their lackeys in the Viscount's seat, a puppet who would all but guarantee their ascendancy. "Perhaps you can lie, but it doesn't mean I wish to."

"This would be advantageous to us both. With someone like you, I might have friendship and understanding and support. With me, you'd have power and respect to match your abilities. It might not be the most romantic of partnerships, but I admire you and I think we'd always be fond of one another."

"Saemus, I'm not sure I can settle for just...fondness from the man I choose to marry."

"I certainly wouldn't forbid you from finding passion elsewhere. As it stands, I'm well aware you have an elven lover and I'd never get in the way of that, so long as you were...discreet," he said. "We would both be able to pursue our outside affairs with no fear of judgement. Of course, I would expect you to abstain from seeing elves and other personages when we were trying conceive heirs, but otherwise you'd have your own room and I wouldn't trouble you."

She was taken aback by his candour. First, it'd been like pulling teeth to get him to say the word 'marry' and now he was dispassionately plotting how they'd arrange extra-marital affairs in their marriage of convenience. "I...Saemus, this is a lot to take in. Perhaps you might..."

The door opened and Uncle Gamlen came barrelling into the study. Saemus flushed at this intrusion, nearly spilling his tea in his lap.

"Where's your Mother?" Gamlen demanded. "She's late. She was supposed to meet me, but she's kept me waiting these past three hours."

Marian blinked, gazing confusedly into her uncle's dissolute face. There were sun-dials less punctual than her mother. She'd never known her to forget an appointment.

"Well, she said she was going to visit you," she told him. "I warned her against it. There's a flesh-eating bacteria growing on that old cheese of yours."

Gamlen wrinkled his nose. "Har, har. Very amusing. Will you make more foolish japes at my expense or will you kindly help me search for her?"

"Must I choose one or the other? I think I'm capable of doing both at once."

She turned her back on him, ignoring his attempt at a comeback, and walked upstairs to her mother's room, tapping lightly at the door. It drifted open, revealing a crisp, newly made bed, a small set of drawers and a writing desk kept immaculately clean. A vase of white lilies sat on her dressing table. A few of the petals had already started to brown and wilt.

Marian lunged forward and seized the vase, practically flying down the stairs. She thrust the flowers in Gamlen's face. "What is this? Who sent this?"

"Damned if I know," Gamlen said, giving a petulant sniff. "Probably some suitor."

Some suitor. Her mother had contemplated seeking a suitor, but Marian knew this wasn't a romantic gesture. Lovers sent roses, not dying lilies. Such flowers were meant for a funeral bouquet, the sort that Gaspard's master sent his victims. She dumped the vase onto the floor and trampled them under her boots.

"What in the world are you doing?" Saemus asked.

"Don't ask, boy. You probably don't want to know the answer," Gamlen muttered.

"Go get Aveline. Now. Tell her that Mother's in danger. Emeric was right."

"What?" Gamlen scowled at her. "Can you at least try to make some sense?"

She gave him a hard shove and when he tried to resist, she lifted her leg as if to kick his backside. That got him to scoot. "Don't make me repeat myself, you old goat. You'll do as I say or by the Maker, you'll have cause to regret it."

"My lovely niece," he said, turning a beady eye in Saemus' direction before he hobbled out the door. "Watch her. She's a blasted shrew. She'll suck the life out of you, chop off your manhood and hurl it into the Void. Run. Run while you still can." Having completed this glowing assessment, he darted out the door, quick as a weasel. Marian could only hope that he was bound for the Keep and not the Blooming Rose, where he spent most of his monthly allowance.

Saemus furrowed his brow, his blue eyes confused. No doubt, Marian thought, he was already starting to regret that ill-advised marriage proposal.

"What can I do?" he asked. "Do you need my sword?"

Marian was touched by the offer, although she doubted that Saemus could stand in battle against a seasoned blood mage. In a dire time like this, civilians were just a liability. "Please, Saemus, go gather my friends. Tell them I've gone to Lowtown Market and I need their help. They'll come for me."

With that, Marian sprinted out of the house, dodging her way along the lane and through the late-day bustle of Hightown Market. She took the steep descent to Lowtown at a breakneck pace, taking three stairs at a time, cursing her own obliviousness and clinging to the hope that it was still not too late.


	7. The Strongest Force in the Universe

"Do you know what the strongest force in the universe is?" Quentin turned to the white-clad woman in the wooden chair, his tone becoming sickly sweet. "Love."

Marian watched, aghast, as the woman rose from her seat, shuffling forward to face them. It was her mother, or at least, her mother's head, stitched on to another woman's torso. The limbs she moved belonged to other women; her hands were longer and more tapered, her legs were slimmer at the ankle but thicker at the calves. As she shambled forward, wide-eyed and gap-mouthed with shock, it was clear how strange and terrible this patchwork body was for her – she stumbled over her own feet and her arms swung limply at her sides, unable to aid her. Quentin had painted her bloodless face with cosmetics in garish colours that she would never have chosen herself. She looked like a mannequin in a shopkeeper's window, a life-sized doll that the madman might play with, manipulating her into positions, forcing her to pretend that she was his wife, his toy, his creation.

Quentin fought for his grisly trophy, summoning his demons, his shades, all the magic he could muster, but Dupuis had been wrong in his prediction of the outcome. His master did not win and when the last foe had been vanquished, Marian brought her blades together across Quentin's throat, severing his neck and sending his head rolling across the grimy stone floor. Blood spurted from the sliced arteries and the mage's body slumped to the ground, lifeless.

She rushed to her mother's side. The effects of the killer's magic were already beginning to wane. The skin her mother wore like borrowed cloak was clammy and mottled with bruises. When Leandra's gaze found Marian's face, her eyes were glassy and she struggled to suck in breath.

"I knew you would come," she said softly.

Tears glistened at the edge of Marian's vision, blurring her mother's face. As she blinked, they shattered into broken glass, cruel, splintering stars that stuck under her skin. "Don't move, Mother. We'll find a way to..."

Her voice was shrill and seemed to come from somewhere outside her body. Marian knew she was lying, that there was no way to undo her failure and yet part of her clung to the belief that if she were persistent enough, determined enough, she might defy death and pull her mother back to their life in Hightown, a place where the woman who was once Leandra Amell might have fine things and friends beyond counting and another sweet taste of romance, the feverish dreams of her girlhood. Or anything else, anything but dying on the filthy floor of a foundry, surrounded by mutilated corpses, lab equipment and a shrine to another woman, now long dead, whose resemblance to her seemed a grotesque mockery of all things good and beautiful.

"Don't fret, darling." The quiet fury that Leandra had felt towards her daughter seemed to have faded away. Her voice was gentle now, her eyes without judgement. "That man would have kept me trapped here. I'll get to see Carver again and your father...But you'll be here alone."

Alone. Marian stared at her mother's face, so kind and careworn, still so lovely despite Quentin's butchery, feeling the full weight of that word. It would be left to her to carry on and yet she didn't think she could trudge any farther, not when everything she had lived for had lost its meaning.

"I should have watched over you more closely. I should've..." Her voice cracked as she remembered all the times she had rolled her eyes at her mother's plans or behaved like an insolent adolescent, ridiculing the old-fashioned advice Leandra had offered with only the intention of helping her. She had been a terrible daughter, neglectful and thoughtless even though they had seen each other every day, even though, if someone had asked her what her greatest priority was, she would have said her family, without a moment's thought.

Marian took a deep breath, fighting to control her face. Her mother needed her to be brave for these last few minutes, if only so that she wouldn't worry about having to go.

Leandra smiled, her words slurring as her muscles began to slacken. "My little girl has become so strong. I love you. You've always made me so proud."

Her eyes clouded over, her features became rigid and mask-like, as if she'd been sculpted from plaster. Marian stroked her hair, tears searing down her cheeks and bent forward, pressing her forehead against her mother's ear. "I love you. I love you, Mother," she rasped. "I'm sorry." Her sobs were low and guttural, fists to her gut and razors scraping along her throat.

She felt Aveline's arms around her back, supporting her. "Come away now, Hawke. Please. Say goodbye and let her rest."

Rest. Only the dead had that.

* * *

Leandra Hawke was dead, murdered by a deranged blood mage and his twisted desires. Marian had undergone a devastating loss and was almost inconsolable in her grief, emotions so powerful that they left Fenris intimidated and almost awestruck, the way he'd been when a hurricane had washed over the Fog Warriors' jungle, battering down everything in its path. She had always seemed somewhat detached from the world, shielded by her odd, charming humour, and while he knew that she felt things, it came as a surprise how much she felt and how much pain she was capable of holding within. He felt the need to intervene, the impulse to rush in and strike down the enemy with his sword as he did in battle, but all their enemies were already dead and there was nothing left to contend with except the grief that shattered her frame. He didn't know what to do with that, what words to say or what things he should do. He was unsure whether she even wanted him in the same room when she cried.

In Fenris' understanding, it was a tragic example of how an unruly mage could become a power-hungry monster, inevitably exploiting those whom he saw as inferiors, treating them little better than livestock or lab animals for his grisly experiments. He had not always seen eye-to-eye with Hawke's mother and Leandra had certainly held no great fondness for him, but she'd met her end bravely. She had not clung to the grotesque magic that held her to the world and would have enslaved her to Quentin forever.

As for Quentin, there were not enough deaths Fenris could give him. Marian had been the one to slice off the mage's head, stabbing at his corpse until it was nothing but bloody mush held together by splintered bones, but that had hardly been the justice she deserved. There was not enough suffering he could have inflicted. If he were to encounter the mysterious "O" who had abetted his work – well, the man would not go easily. It would be slow. Practice for Danarius.

After Aveline had escorted Marian home, he'd gone to her with the idea he might give her comfort. He'd deceived himself in that regard, because he'd never had any talent for consolation. The best Fenris found that he could give her were platitudes, empty things that he could not believe himself. He sat down beside her on the bed, feeling the mattress sag beneath his weight and his first thought was just to grab her and hold her, to give over his body for her grief or her anger or whatever she willed. A decidedly short-term solution. A selfish one. He doubted following such an impulse would end well for either of them.

Marian leaned forward, folding her hands together as she stared at the floor. "I've heard that when people die, they're supposed to go to the side of the Maker."

"I've heard that too," he said softly, his gaze lingering on the side of her face. Her cheekbone was bruised, the skin around it swollen and discoloured. It must have pained her, but he could tell it was the least of her wounds. "To be honest, I do not think there is much point in filling these moments with empty talk."

She curled herself into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her knees and began to weep, her hair a dark curtain over her face. He'd meant that words were meaningless in the face of grief and that perhaps they ought to just sit there and say nothing, but evidently, his meaning had gone awry. Speaking in Common, his blunt Tevinter phrasing did not always translate so readily.

He unlaced the spiked pauldron from his right shoulder, setting it on the floor. "I'm not good at this."

Marian parted her hair from her face and swiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. "Not particularly. Not that I don't -" She sucked in a breath between sniffles. "- appreciate you giving it the old college try."

He touched his bared shoulder. "You can put your head here. Let's...just be quiet for a time."

She shifted her body to the left, leaning her head against his shoulder. The intimacy of it made him dry-mouthed and panicky, and he was tempted to invent a reason to stand up and walk somewhere, to get a glass of water or to check in on the household staff. Yet it was rather...nice too, for lack of a better word, to feel so trusted, so necessary to her, to feel her hand wrap around his bicep and her hair sway against his back. This closeness lasted a few nerve-wracking, heart-pounding minutes, before she complained of a crick in her neck and had to adjust her position, easing herself back on to her pillows and pulling the comforter up over her head like a child who was fearful of the darkness.

Fenris suspected, too, that his shoulder had been hard and unyielding, all bone, knotted muscle and sinew, hardly the place someone might comfortably nestle into. He sat there for a time, watching her shuddering breaths under the blanket and hoping the sleep would give her the same sweet oblivion that it had offered him during his slave days, when wakefulness had been a curse, a torment between the times he could close his eyes and drift into a few precious hours of forgetfulness.

Aveline arranged for the guard to come in the evening and they removed the bodies of Quentin's victims from the foundry – what little was left of them. Marian insisted on helping and so Fenris went too, to do what he could. It was a charnel house, the smell of blood so thick in the air that it sickened him. At times like these, Minrathous came flooding back and Kirkwall felt like a dream, a hallucination borne of hunger or a beating, perhaps. Sometimes he tortured himself with the thought that he was still there, in his chains, and that Marian, the house, the books, the wine he drank from the cellar, they were all just visions worming through his brain, the after-effects of the lyrium on his body.

If it bothered him, he don't know how Marian could stomach it, but she stayed in the foundry until every corpse had been removed and carted away, wrapped in bloody white sheets. There was no way to tell for sure which body belonged to whom, the pieces had been so picked over and mutilated. What Quentin had not used in his surgeries and experiments, had either decayed beyond recognition or been fed to his pets, a ragged band of stray cats. Fenris had seen a touch of Anders in that and it'd unnerved him. Still, the man was Marian's friend – he would not betray her by serving the apostate up to the templars.

In the dead of night, the city guards built a pyre in the Chantry Courtyard and people gathered, watching in silence as they burned the bodies. Afterwards, Elthina gave a sermon and others gave eulogies. Marian was invited to speak also, but she declined the offer - wisely, Fenris thought, for he did not know what she would have said. She passed the entire funeral shivering, her arms wrapped around her chest, her light eyes narrowed into slits that glittered in the firelight.

"I'm so sorry about your mother," Fenris heard Sebastian tell her, as if his apology was of any help, as if she should care. "I've put her name up on the Chantry's memory wall and I will pray for you both."

As he saw it, it was all very easy for them to feel sorry now. It was over. Nothing more could be done. How much better it would have been if they could have acted to prevent this atrocity, before it was too late. A failure of the Kirkwall's undisciplined templars and its short-sighted city guards. A travesty caused by that joke of a Circle. His failure, too, for breaking Gascard's neck in his rage, when he might have still manage to extract some small piece of information. He'd been thoughtless and prideful, when he should have surmised that something like this might occur. Magic never offered anything but abasement, carnage and slaughter.

Aveline looked ashamed of herself and rightly so. If she had been more vigilant in her duties as Guard-Captain, this might not have occurred. He was sorely tempted to tell her so, but Varric seemed to anticipate his intention and interfered, with his usual bluster.

"If you make a scene, elf, so help me..."

He had a point, of course. Fenris knew it was an inappropriate moment to express his indignation. Nevertheless, he resented Varric trying to manage him, as the man did with nearly everyone else.

"You'll do what, dwarf? I believe that was the start of a threat."

"I'll have you evicted from that rickety old death-trap you live in, for starters. Don't think I can't manage it. Especially if I have the Captain on my side."

A viable threat. It was enough to silence him for the time being. It was not as if he was so fond of the ruin where he resided, but there are certain benefits to the neighbourhood, ones that he should not wish to give up. Above all, a very good view. Beyond the obviously picturesque quality of the Hightown's outlook on the Waking Sea, he could see the window of Marian's second-floor landing from the east wing of his mansion and if he stood out on the rusty, dilapidated balconies outside Danarius' chamber, he found himself looking down directly onto her front walk. He would not enjoy such conveniences from Lowtown or Maker forbid, the Alienage, where he would be expected to keep his head down and blend in with the downtrodden City elves. The thought of listening to their frivolous gossip or attending some foolish frolic around their large ornamental tree was enough to make him shudder. Furthermore, if he were to be shuffled off there, no doubt Merrill would be dauntlessly awaiting his arrival with some half-cooked Dalish recipe and a six-month worth of inane chatter, ready to welcome him to the neighbourhood and the innumerable wonders of his glorious elven heritage. He'd pass on that head-ache.

When Fenris sought out Marian, he learned that she had already departed home, in the company of her uncle and no less a personage than Saemus Dumar. That name was one he was coming to find increasingly disagreeable with each passing day. He found himself grimly staking his hopes on Gamlen, whose leering, shifty-eyed presence might dampen Dumar's chances of pressing his suit. The old goat had always insisted on making ribald comments whenever he'd come by the estate during Fenris' reading lessons and he'd always done a marvellous job of making things awkward. With any luck, Gamlen would squeeze himself in between Saemus and Marian on the carriage ride back to the estate and speculating about how many whores Saemus had bought and what he'd done with them, when he wasn't dropping hints about borrowing money from the Dumar treasury to pay his gambling debts, which were more numerous than Fenris'. With that vulture hovering around them, ready to swoop down on Saemus like fresh carrion, there would be no question of the boy trying to...take undue advantage.

He hadn't minded the Viscount's boy when he'd first met him, although he'd found his unusual affection for Qunari baffling and somewhat absurd. Dumar was weak and impulsive, but he was not without compassion for the downtrodden and if he was a fool, at least he wished to become a wiser man than he was. It was only recently that the boy's idealism and yes, the very youth that made that idealism possible had started to grate on him.

Fenris did not know how old he was, but comparing his reflection in the mirror to the faces of other elves he'd seen, he had begun to suspect he was on the wrong side of 30, a man no longer in his youth. How many decades had he lost to Danarius? He had become bitter and jaded in servitude, a man with a withered heart, and now he was entering his middle years, even though he still felt ignorant as a child. He could not help but resent Saemus with his youth, his wealth and all his boyish illusions seemingly intact, as he sailed effortlessly into Marian's life and perhaps into her heart as well. The boy was free and clean and pure enough to be able to take everything Fenris coveted and enjoy it, without fear or doubt, knowing that he was entitled to good things. He could only watch and stew in his hatred.

He ended up drinking in the Hanged Man with Varric and Isabella, listening to the dwarf spin his tales and the Rivaini tease him with assorted insinuations and vulgarities. When the dwarf took his leave, it only became worse.

"And now it is only just us two. How convenient," she said. "You know, funerals always remind me how lovely is to be alive. And how one should never waste a chance for fun."

Isabella leaned forward across the table, an obvious ploy to make fuller display of her cleavage. It was a crude trick, one of many in the Rivaini's arsenal, probably picked up from watching whores or bedding them. She was an attractive woman, if a bit haggard in the face, her skin battered by sea winds and the unforgiving sun - but then he imagined her conquests probably didn't spend much time looking above her neck. She was persistent, too, for what it was worth, undemanding, experienced and readily available. There was an appeal in such things, certainly, or there might have been if he hadn't known there was something better dangling just out of his reach.

Isabella had unknowingly set herself up for the unflattering contrast by stuffing herself into one of Marian's dresses, a violet gown, one that he remembered well. He'd always been fond of it on Marian when she wore it to their lessons, the colour highlighting her striking colouring and blue-green eyes. Meanwhile, it was ill-suited to Isabella, making her olive complexion look sallow and weathered in the harsh light of the lanterns.

He looked down at his empty cup, picking it up and tapping it against the table. Nora the tavern wench gave him a nod of recognition, but took her sweet time in bringing more ale.

"Funerals remind me how often it is that innocents die, while the ruthless live and prosper," he said.

She arched an eyebrow. "You always say such cheerful things. Now I fancy I could put that tongue of yours to much more amusing uses..." Her foot began to slide up the inside of his leg but he knocked it back with his knee. It was another place on his lanky frame where his bones protruded sharply and the blow must have hurt her because she flinched and pretended to pout. He chuckled at that. Served her right for not taking a hint.

"That's an offer you've no doubt made to many men," he noted. "It's one I will decline."

"Oh, come on. It'd be fun. We could both use a good screw right about now..."

Fenris sighed. Subtlety was not among the Rivaini's strong suits. "This is undignified. Don't persist. I don't wish to sleep with you."

Isabella rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't be doing any _sleeping_. Not while I was around."

He glanced around the bar, noting that quite a number of Isabella's previous conquests were present and available. "There are others here. I expect that at least one among this number would appreciate what you have to offer."

Isabella sat back in her chair, assessing him. She gave him a smug smile, one that he found thoroughly irritating because it seemed to imply that she knew more than him, that, indeed, she knew better than him. "You're really set on being a bloody bore, aren't you? I don't know why. You wouldn't have to go wallowing in _feelings_ with me, you know."

"Disloyalty is an unattractive quality. So is ingratitude."

"Disloyalty?" She looked shocked. "To whom, precisely?"

He decided to spell it out for her. "Marian might allow you to borrow her clothes, but I think that's where the sharing should end."

"This dress is hers, certainly, but I didn't realize she owned your cock too."

He glared at her, resenting the insinuation. How like the damnable bawd to call honour servitude and to confuse admiration with slavish devotion. "No one owns me."

"Tell me, has she signed her name on it? Or has she clipped your balls off and stowed 'em in her purse? I'll bet she carries them around for luck, like rabbits' feet..."

"You know nothing, you festering sea-witch. I suggest you shut your filthy mouth before I shut it for you."

She sniggered, draining the last drops from her cup and plonking it back down on the table. "Ohh, sensitive, eh? You're a damn fool if you think you're free. All you've done is trade master for mistress and screwed yourself into some prettier chains. The truth's a scurvy bitch."

"Much like yourself, I expect."

"Yes, much like me," She stood, her chair scraping back from the table. "Now you must excuse me, but I've spent enough time being bloody charitable to boney-arsed elves for tonight and I am sorely in need of some_ fun._"

"Hm. Yes. Go collect a few more diseases," he muttered. "I wish you great joy of them."

He didn't worry about the long-term effects of this argument. If there was one thing that was peculiar and quite unique to Isabella, it was the fact that she avoided grudges just as surely as attachments and seemed to wake up each morning having entirely forgotten what one had said to her the day before. Of course, this also meant that she would conveniently fail to remember that he had unequivocally refused to have sex with her, but with any luck, another fellow would have caught her eye by then and she would not expend any more energy on this unseemly game of cat-and-mouse.

Paying for his drinks with the last of his coin, he left the bar and stumbled home, seeing the windows darkened on the Hawke Estate and wondering what Marian might be doing. He debated knocking on her door to see if Dumar was still there, then thought better of it. Instead, he took himself to bed, fumbling his way up the stairs of Danarius' mansion without a light to guide him. If he'd gone to her estate, if he'd seen her, looking small and unexpectedly fragile in her mourning gown, he might have said something he had cause to regret.

* * *

Marian cast a rueful glance over at Saemus' shirt, noting the damp marks her teary eyes had left on the blue silk when he'd sought to comfort her. "I'm sorry. I've been leaking all over you."

Saemus smiled, brushing his hand over the fabric. "It's nothing to be sorry about. I hate to see you in this state. Is there nothing I can do?"

_Can you raise the dead? Can you reverse the clock, tell the City Guard to do their damn jobs and get them to actually investigate a case, instead of letting it stagnate for years while they chased smugglers and petty thieves? Can you turn back the hours and make me a better daughter, one who was good at parties and would've known that her mother had received a delivery of white lilies? _A swarm of recriminations, stinging regrets that she could not speak aloud. Everything, everything gone and there was nothing that he or anyone could do. There was nothing that she could do and she had always tried to envision herself as the mistress of her own destiny. Yet no matter how quick she was, how skilled or how clever, no matter how sharply honed her blades, she could not make her mother live again. She had not even been able to piece together Leandra's body before they gave her up to the flames.

"Saemus, you've been very kind. I can't think of anything else...in truth, I can't think at all. I should probably just turn in for the night and try to puzzle it all out tomorrow."

"Do you want me to stay?"

She was surprised at the question and even more surprised at how grateful she would be to have another person in the house, someone other than Orana, Bodahn and Sandal to fill up the terrible emptiness that her mother had left behind.

"Yes. If you'd like. I'll ask Orana to make up the guestroom."

His brows rose, tilting downwards in a quizzical, almost hurt expression. "A guestroom. That's rather...distant."

She wasn't sure what to make of this comment. The guestroom seemed the obvious place to put a guest... which was precisely what he was, even if he had proposed a marriage of convenience. By the Maker, even if they were to marry, he'd still probably sleep down the hall, so this was like a first taste of what their lives might be like as husband and wife.

"It's only across the hall."

"You wish to be alone?" His blue eyes were still upon her, watching. She wondered when they would blink. "I...I would stay with you, if you wanted me to. I'm not suggesting anything untoward. I would just...stay. With my clothes on."

She cracked a faint smile this, his awkward babbling reminding her of her first introduction to Merrill. Saemus truly was a nice boy, sweet and noble and puppyish, just as she had told Mother, in those days when a failed romance and the temper tantrums of the Arishok were the most pressing matters in her world. "Nothing untoward? Damnation. Why must you shatter all my hopes?"

Saemus' cheeks flushed, reddening to the very tips of his ears and he became even more flustered, seeming to forget her fondness for sarcasm. "I suppose we could...um, try that, if it'd...help. I...haven't much experience with women, but it might be...useful, if we're to marry -"

She interrupted him, shaking her head, appalled at herself for causing him such discomfort. It seemed that her little jests often left no one else laughing. "No, no. You don't have to – oh, dear Maker, Saemus, I was just venturing a joke. A very feeble one."

"I would...try, you know. If it would help. Perhaps my proposal this afternoon left something to be desired, but I do care about you. I would try to make this work between us. Who's to say that there might not be love...in time?"

Touched by his generosity and perhaps even a little unnerved by it, she reached out and clasped his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. He leaned on her, stooping to rest his chin against the side of her neck. It seemed that he needed to be hugged just as much as she did, if not more. It had been a difficult day for them both.

"It's alright," she said, patting his back. "Let's not think about it now, alright? We should both just go get some sleep. It's been a long day."

As she drew away from him, he took her hand gently, sliding a ring onto her finger. It was antique silver, marked with the image of the rampant lion, the Dumar sigil. "Just...wear this," he said. "Consider what we might do together."

"You should be free, Saemus," she told him. "You shouldn't have to wed me out of duty."

And yet even as she said it, she knew that no one was free, not utterly, that all one's choices were restricted by circumstance, by law, by expectation, by history, by convention or habit, by the limitations of one's own body and mind. Some people were freer than others, but no one was unbound. If she and Saemus were tied together, they might each be captives in their way, but there would be comfort, security and companionship, as well as the fulfilment of making Kirkwall a better place for its citizens. Surely a good partner and hard work were exactly what she needed to recover from her losses and with the Dumar name, she would have a place in the world, just as her mother had wished.

If they married, she might dedicate a statue to her mother in the Chantry. She might have children who would live in the estate and raise their own children there. She might be able to give an army to Sebastian, a ship to Isabella, the Hanged Man to Varric, more resources to Aveline, improvements to the Alienage for Merrill. Fenris...well, she suspected he would be displeased with her but he would come to terms with it and with her status, she might grant him full rights to his mansion and all the legal protections he required. She had been able to make some small impact on city affairs on her own, but her influence would be much more effectual if she and Saemus were wed and she had the Dumar seal to affix to her letters. Perhaps...perhaps they might even be happy, if they kept their expectations low and allowed each other some space to indulge outside interests. Even if there wasn't passion or romance, there might be kindness and affection, gentler feelings than anything she had experienced with Fenris. The love described in the ballads of bards and minstrels was beautiful, certainly, but it was also exquisitely painful and full of vicissitudes. Something more patient and plodding might suit her better now that she had lost almost everything she held dear, something that would not hurt so much. Love was a dagger twisting in her side. It was what had driven Quentin mad and what had killed her mother. There was nothing so cruel or so dangerous.

She touched the ring, twisting it down to the very bottom of her finger. It was a snug fit and it pinched her skin at the sides, but she would likely become accustomed to it with time.

"Think about it," Saemus said again. He leaned over and kissed her cheek, his lips leaving a faint moisture that stung against her skin. Turning, he walked down the stairs. "Goodnight, Marian. I'll see to my own room."

"Goodnight," she said softly, wiping a stray tear from her eye. She went into her room, stripping in darkness, dropping her clothes on the floor as if she might peel the events of the day from her skin. She bundled herself into bed and closed her eyes, willing herself numb to the world, although she was still sensible of Saemus' ring tight upon her finger.


	8. A Losing Hand

The ring on Marian's finger attracted more notice when she sat down to the weekly game of Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man. Everything else that she wore was mourning black and in light of recent events, it seemed to be the one of the topics people seized upon to avoid talking about the obvious – that her mother had been murdered, that her house was a succession of empty rooms and that she was struggling to put on a brave face.

"That's shiny," Anders said, grasping her hand to examine the design of the ring more closely. "Hm. A lion. Fierce, too, it would seem."

She nodded to his cards. "Perhaps you ought to spend less time looking at my hand and more time playing your own. I was always under the impression you fancy magical types were clever with cards."

He gave her a scowl, one that seemed mostly in jest, but it was hard to tell these days. He'd become...sensitive since Vengeance had come out and nearly murdered that poor girl.

"That's magicians. They fool with cards. Pull bunny rabbits from Orlesian chapeaux. I'm a mage. There's a difference. Mages do genuine spells. Magicians do...children's parties."

"I think I prefer magicians then," Fenris muttered. Marian saw him glance at her hand before his gaze moved up to her face, a searching look, but one that betrayed no emotion. He wagered two silvers.

Isabella checked Merrill's cards and instructed her not to bet, before tossing her own silvers into the pot. "I once had a magician, when I was docked in Orlais. He pulled a shiny new copper from my ear. I was hoping he'd extract more valuable coins from my other parts, but alas, only coppers!"

Avelinebarked a laugh. "Which only goes to show that you're cheap."

"Serves you right for fooling with one of those_ charlatans_," Anders said. "You know, they locked one of them in the Circle of Ferelden once, before Irving figured out the mistake. Silly bastard practically cried when the Knight-Commander gave him the boot. He thought he was finally going to learn real magic instead of just pissing about with wands."

"Another power-hungry fool. Hardly a new tale," Fenris sneered. Marian had seen him be almost civil to Anders less than a few minutes ago but now he seemed set on provoking him.

"I wonder if I could make a rabbit come out of a hat," Merrill said. "I should try it. For fun."

"That sounds entertaining, Daisy. Just don't get any demons involved," Varic replied.

He took his sweet time wagering, rubbing his chin and mumbling to himself as he pondered his cards. By now, everyone knew this was for dramatic effect, but he did it anyway, just to annoy them. "Oh, by the Stone and all my rotten ancestors, why not up the ante? Four silvers, everyone. Four silvers." He dropped them into the pot one at a time - _clink, clink, clink_.

Aveline shook her head, folding her cards. "Count me out of this one."

Anders frowned, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his robe. "Dear Maker, Varric, do you think I'm made of money? I run a free clinic in Darktown of all places. If I'm to stay in this game, I'm going to have to start charging for every scabby face and itchy groin I wave my hands over and magic away. I fold." He tucked his cards away.

Marian had a good hand, a six of hearts, a four of hearts, a queen of a swords and a queen of flames. She slid her coin across the table, content to listen to the others. Their talk was a pleasant distraction from heavy thoughts and the decisions she would soon need to make about her future.

"So, Hawke, tell us now about this ring of yours," Anders said. "The one with the ferocious lion on it."

Isabella gave a soft snort. "All it means is that Dumar's got his claws into her." She turned to Marian, reaching across the table to press her hand over hers. "Take the advice of someone who's been around the block a few times. Marrying is the worst thing you'll ever do. Bed 'em, certainly, but never, never wed 'em."

Aveline frowned at the Rivaini, gnawing her lower lip. From the look in her eyes, it was clear she was dubious. "That's the stupidest advice I've ever heard. Just because it bloody rhymes doesn't mean that it's right."

The next round of betting started and Marian was dismayed to see Fenris shove in his four silvers. He had better have a damn good hand to back up that bet because otherwise, she couldn't imagine where he'd be getting the money to feed himself. Perhaps that was why he was so lean, just lyrium-etched skin, spare muscle and bone, and why he was capable of fixing her with such hungry looks. His gaze cut at her from across the table, his mouth grimly turned down at the corners as if he had take a long draught of bitter ale, before he bowed his head and looked back to his cards.

Merrill wrinkled her nose. "Hawke's marrying the Viscount? But he's old. 'Course, his eyes are rather pretty though. They make me think of marbles. Blue ones."

"Not the Viscount, Daisy," Varric corrected her. "The Viscount's son."

"Oh, silly me," the elf clapped her hand to her forehead. "Saemus, of course. That's better. His eyes are pretty too."

Marian finally managed to recover her voice. "We...We're just talking about it. Nothing has been decided." She fixed the dwarf with an admonitory glare. "So there's really no need to go spreading it all over Lowtown, Varric."

Varric smiled."My lady, I'd never...the story just isn't that marketable. Not yet. Now if you'd be kind enough to marry something large and beastly – a kraken, say - and then kill it, why then we might have the makings of a tale for Lowtown. Whereas, on the whole, Saemus Dumar is a rather pedestrian choice. 'Though as Daisy says, his eyes are sort of pretty."

Isabella yawned and flicked her wager onto the table. "What is he, five years younger than you?"

"Six," Marian admitted, a little abashed.

"Now, I'll be the first to admit, I do enjoy a younger man," she said. "They're so nice and fresh and wet behind the ears, why you can train them to do _anything_. Just like frisky puppies. But really, you mustn't marry him. It's the absolute worst thing either of you can do. Just give him a good fucking and throw him overboard."

Aveline nearly spit up her ale. "Isabella! That's the Viscount son you're talking about. Hawke will do no such thing."

"She will, if she's a clever girl," Isabella said. "And then she'll take that pretty, shiny ring and she'll sell it for good coin."

Anders shook his head, apparently unsure whether he was impressed or offended. "Heartless. Sensible, but heartless."

"A crass move and utterly without honour," Aveline retorted. "The Dumars are a respectable, upstanding family. They've probably had that ring in the family for generations."

Isabella grinned. "They're a respectable, upstanding, _rich_ family and if they like, they can go buy another priceless family heirloom at the trinketmongers."

"I have money enough," Marian objected. "I'm not going to pawn off Saemus' ring. And I'd have to have a damn good hand before I'd gamble it." She sighed. "Dear Maker, must you two bicker over everything? What's next, hair-pulling?"

"If the strumpet likes," Aveline said, glaring at the Rivaini.

Isabella finished her glass of ale and pounded her glass down on the table. "Bring it on, Manhands, you daft cow. I'll enjoy plucking out that charming copper hair of yours, strand by strand. Perhaps I'll make a ginger wig for Varric's chest."

Varric looked up from his solemn deliberation over his cards, no doubt alarmed at this sacrilege. "Ladies, ladies. First of all, my chest does not need a wig. Secondly, this is Wicked Grace we're playing. This is serious business. You two hens can peck each other to death later, but right now, a little focus would be nice."

He cast sharp-eyed looks around the table, glancing between Isabella, Fenris and Marian. Marian knew her cards were good, but she still had trouble keeping a straight face when the dwarf was looking at her with such uncharacteristic intensity. This was her principal problem in playing Wicked Grace and one of the reasons why she almost invariably lost.

"Isabella, you're chock full of nug shit," Varric proclaimed. "You've got nothing. Marian, you neither. Big, stinkin' casteless nug shit. I know your tells and you're doing every bloody one. But you -" he pointed at Fenris, shaking his finger. "You, I don't like, elf. You're not playing like usual. And usually you lose. So, you're making feel a wee bit cautious." He took another look at his cards, fanning them out, examining each one, before folding them into a little pile and chucking them on the table. "That's it. I'm out. 'Though, if you turn up a pair of twos, elf, I'm going to feel like one Stone-stupid son of bitch."

Isabella shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Was that bit of theatrics really necessary? Anyway, you're wrong, Varric. My cards happen to be just lovely."

Marian looked across the table at Fenris' face. He was frowning down at his ale as if he'd just spotted a dead fly in the glass, but when he caught her peeking at him over the tops of her cards, he flinched and his leg brushed against hers under the table.

Embarrassed, she shifted to give him some room and her foot touched his again. She lifted her cup of ale and drank, trying to hide the blush spreading across her cheeks and inched her foot away.

The side of his foot found the edge of her boot and his leg pressed against hers again as if to cast away any doubt that this game was purposeful.

Marian pushed another six silvers into the middle of the table, the last of her stake. "All in."

Varric whistled. "Ohhh, big money. Let's see if the other contenders are so confident."

Fenris' eyes were on his cards but his foot had moved to rest on top of her leather boot and his leg pressed forward to rest between her knees. She clamped her thighs together around it to stop his progress, unsure where this might go or what he might do and whether she wanted to risk it moving any further. She wasn't doing anything that Saemus had forbidden and indeed, he might be in bed with another man at that very moment, but it still made her feel strangely guilty and...dishonest, particularly since Fenris had no idea about the little arrangement that she and her prospective bridegroom had made. Did he think that she was being dishonourable and trying to toy with them both? Or perhaps he thought it fun to play with her, to have one over on the Viscount's son by making his fiancée squirm? In any case, she'd promised Saemus discretion. Playing footsy under a table at the Hanged Man was hardly Marian's idea of being discreet.

She felt his other leg move towards her or at least she thought it was his...

Anders scraped back his chair from the table. "Andraste's Flames, elf, can you please stop kicking your filthy feet under the table?"

"Calm yourself, mage, or one of these 'filthy' feet will soon be resting on your throat."

"Ha, sure. Or more likely, I'll roast them off with a fireball and you can crawl your way back to your Hightown ruin on your hands and knees over the cobblestones."

"A most unlikely scenario, but I'll let you keep your illusions."

Fenris dug into his pockets and pulled out six more silvers, laying them in the center of the table. "All in."

Marian could tell he really was all in, that he'd probably just thrown every coin he had into the pot and part of her wanted to grab him by the collar and shake some sense into him. She didn't know why he insisted on squandering his money when he could be making decent use of it - to fix up the mansion, to buy himself property or better armour or at the very least, more books for his education. He must be bored to death by the ones from her library and yet he continued to borrow them week after week.

Aveline seemed to share her reservations. "Is that really a good idea, Fenris?"

"It's a gamble," he said. "I shan't know if it's a good idea until I've lost or I've won."

"And that's precisely why I've never endorsed this unsavoury business and why I shouldn't have let Hawke talk me into it," she said. "You're betting coin you can't spare."

Fenris gave a light shrug, feigning innocence. Beneath the table, his leg delved a little deeper between Marian's thighs. "Is that not the most intriguing sort of gamble?"

Marian could not keep a faint smile from her lips. She was unsure whether it was courage or madness, but his unshakeable air of calmness and her sure knowledge of the passion beneath it pleased her all the same. There was fire in his heart and ice in his veins and she found the contradiction admirable when it wasn't making her furious.

Isabella seemed ready to fling more coin on the table when she looked down at her cards and sighed. "Oh, bollocks. I'm not going to throw good silver after bad. This hand went tits up after the second wager. Serves me right for playing honest." She threw her cards down on the table and gestured at the tavern wench for more booze.

Marian nodded at Fenris, giving his leg a squeeze with the sides of her thighs. "Show me what you've got."

"I shall expect you to lay down all of your cards as well."

Anders shook his head disconsolately. "Suddenly, this is sounding filthier than the elf's feet."

"Bah, she's already seen his ace in the hole," Isabella said.

Marian ignored her, but Merrill giggled, although it was hard to tell if the elf understood the innuendo or if she was simply laughing because she knew it was something dirty.

They lay down their cards at virtually the same moment. Marian stared at Fenris' hand, trying to make the thing compute in her head.

It was one of the weakest she'd ever seen him hold: a four of hearts, a seven of swords, a jack of flames and an ace of noughts. As formidable as Fenris was at bluffing, it'd been lunacy to go all in with such piss-poor cards.

He didn't blink. "All yours."

Damn it, she didn't want his money. She wanted to know what he was planning to eat for the next week, until he picked up whatever Maker-forsaken mercenary job the guilds were likely to grant him. He was good at the work, she knew, but he offended potential employers with his haughtiness, so they only hired him for the drudge jobs, the tasks a mere street thug might have done.

"Mine." She swept the coins off the table, listening to them clink together as they fell into her purse. "A good game, but I think I'll stop now. While I'm still ahead."

"That's not fair," Anders protested. "You can't just leave the table."

"Oh, let the girl enjoy her victory," Isabella said. "You and your blasted demon should save your self-righteousness for the templars."

"Besides, you'll all have ample opportunity to win it back from me next week," Marian promised.

"And we will," Varric said, grinning wolfishly. He and Isabella were probably already devising ways to swindle her.

She went to the bar, paid her tab and walked out the door, cutting a path through Lowtown Market and towards the stairs back to Hightown. She hadn't gone two blocks when she heard his voice behind her.

"Marian."

She swung around and looked at Fenris, pleased to see that he seemed a little shame-faced about the whole thing. "I don't know what possessed you to bet that money."

He fell into step with her. "I suppose I was hoping I could goad you into wagering that ring of yours. A failed tactic."

"If I offered you the coin back, would you take it?"

"No."

Stubborn bastard. She didn't see why he couldn't swallow his pride and admit he'd made an impulsive mistake.

They reached the steep staircase to Hightown and began to mount the steps.

"Do you at least have a job lined up?" she asked.

"Not yet. No doubt I'll find something. There's no lack of villains who'll pay to hide behind a ready blade."

"I guess it would be too much trouble to find decent men to fight for? Work you might enjoy?"

Fenris arched a brow at her, looking incredulous. "If you go to the Mercenaries Guild, you'll note that there's a distinct shortage of 'decent men' looking to hire swords. I settle for cowards and swindlers instead of outright murderers and count myself fortunate."

Sometimes she thought he set out to make problems for himself. Perhaps he worried he might run out of new topics to complain about. "If you hate it so, put down your sword. Find other work."

He gave a grim chuckle. "Did I say I hated it?"

"I hope you find work or have the good sense to ask for your coin," she told him. "You will have trouble eating your pride."

"If I must, there's always the rats. The mansion is rife with them."

"Don't be stupid. You could sit at my table any time you wished."

"And dine with your boy in his silk shirts?" His voice had an edge of bitterness. "I thank you, but I think I should lose my appetite."

"That's too bad," she said mildly. "I planned to serve a lovely bottle of port wine, the sort you like to dash against walls. I suppose Saemus and I shall be forced to drink it now."

Marian hadn't thought to invite Saemus to dinner that week, but since Fenris had suggested it, she would. And she'd make sure it was a well-stocked table too, with plenty of rich, lovely gourmet foods that the elf found too decadent to stomach.

Fenris gave a thin smile. "I won't mind cooked rat, garnished with a few scraps of pride. I've eaten such meals before."

She shook her head. "You're mad."

"No. It might be a blessing if I were," he said. "Perhaps I'm headed that way. It may be you're driving me to it."

Marian smirked. "The mighty Danarius couldn't do it and yet I might be up to the task? You flatter me, sirrah."

"You have better tools at your disposal, lady."

"I have done nothing but lo-" She caught herself before she finished the word. "I've tried to be a friend to you, Fenris. I'd hardly call that torturing you to madness."

"It was hyperbole. I confess it. I am in a strange humour. You must forgive me."

She chuckled. "Must I?"

"You are my friend, are you not? A dear one." He stroked her hair, his steel-clawed hand coiling possessively around a few strands, gentle enough not to hurt her, but firm enough that she could not duck away from him without hurting herself.

Marian's gaze shifted from his hand to his face, which was perilously near, so close that she could feel his breath buffeting her cheeks. "Do you typically do that to your friends?"

His eyes glimmered with amusement. "I don't know. I haven't had a friend before. I'm hardly familiar with the customs."

She cast an anxious glance around them. They were perched on the landing halfway up the stairs to Hightown. At this time of the afternoon, there were few passersby, but it wouldn't be long before the place was crowded with merchants heading home after a day selling wares on the Market heights. This was not discretion. She was not going to make Saemus into a joke, to set people mocking him for a fool and a cuckold. He deserved better than that.

"Not here. Not now."

His voice remained perfectly level, but she could sense frustration simmering just below the surface. "Why not? Do you fear Dumar? Will the boy and his rich old sire storm down from their Keep and reclaim you? I did not think he owned you 'til you spoke the vows, but I suppose it is just. You have the ring already on your finger."

"Yes, I'm terrified of Saemus, who's as gentle as a kitten and his father, who never met a diplomat he couldn't talk to death," she said. "What I desperately need is a gallant elf to rescue me and spirit me away to his decrepit mansion, where we can dine on rats and argue the night away while the roof slowly falls in on us."

His hand tangled itself around another fistful of hair at the back of her neck. "Indeed? Because as it happens, I urgently require a bookish, sharp-tongued Fereldan female to mock and berate me at all hours of the day and to make my nights nigh intolerable with her cruelty and scorn."

"You could use such a woman in your crumbling mansion," she said. "It's too bad you can't bring yourself to care for her as she deserves."

"Is the problem a lack of feeling or an excess of it? A clever woman like you should know the answer."

She craned her neck back, glaring up at him and suddenly, it made sense to her why he gambled away his savings, why he couldn't bring himself to change his armour, why he holed up in that dismal mansion or find work that was anything better than the thuggish brutality the magisters would have expected from him. As much as Fenris claimed to despise his old life, he knew nothing else and he was terrified to abandon what little identity he had as the fugitive slave, the mutilated living weapon. It was...sad. It was pitiable. And if she really wished to anger him, she would inform him of that.

"The end result is still the same, isn't it? You run. The truth is, you like to shove your body right up against mine, just to know you can, but you're too damn fearful to actually kiss me."

He glowered down at her. "I am not."

"Yes, you are. You'd be less afraid to pick up a sword and fight to the death." She was close enough to hear his heart pumping, to see his jaw tighten and the cords of his neck strain along his lyrium-lined throat.

His eyes locked on hers, fierce for a moment and then softening, the gold flecks on his irises seeming to mellow and haze into the green. He leaned forward and his lips pressed against hers, so forcefully that she might have stumbled backward if his hand was not tangled in the hair at the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, savouring the taste of him, the texture of his skin under her fingers, a faint rasp of stubble against her cheeks. Being an elf, he could never quite get to a beard no matter how long he neglected to shave. As far as she could tell, he seemed to enjoy being prickly and the light shadow along his jaw line had likely never met the sharp end of a razor.

Marian realized that her hand was caressing his cheek, a gesture too intimate, too secretly gentle. He didn't need to know that in spite of her harsh words and an acute awareness of his failings, she still sometimes felt the desire to smooth the furrows out of his brow with her hands and that he could still unravel her just by breathing her name.

Fenris drew back, his hand letting her hair fall loose against her back, his eyes still intent upon her face. "I warned you, Marian. Perhaps it...unsettles me...but I do not fear it."

"And yet already I can see you getting that cold, defensive look. And really what does one kiss prove?"

"That I can master myself. And that you would be wise to take that ring off your finger. You don't love Dumar or you wouldn't be here, trying to work your wiles on me."

"You followed me, as I recall. And I know better than to wager this ring on the hand of cards you're holding."

He didn't want anything to be different between them, because that would mean he'd have to move on and become a different person. It was easier for him, she thought, to flirt and play games, to draw tantalizingly close one moment and retreat the next, then to decide whether he was willing to let her go or buckle down and commit himself.

"I suppose I am a poor gamble." He said the words bluntly, as if were just a statement of fact.

"You are...a risk that might pay off richly." Her voice was soft and careful. "But I have little in the way of luck and the odds have never been in our favour, have they?"

"The Dumar boy has certainty. He is undamaged and he will not hurt you. As I have."

It annoyed her when he called Saemus a 'boy', perhaps because there was a grain of truth in the jibe. He was only 20 years old and much more inexperienced that she'd been at that age. She enjoyed discussing politics with him and often found his idealism refreshing, but on occasion he would express opinions so achingly naive that it took real effort not to cringe and she would glad that Fenris was not there to overhear and scoff at them.

"What Saemus and I have is...very different than what might've passed between you and I. If circumstances were not what they are. I won't claim that it's perfect, but I might have...peace."

"You will be content?"

She noticed he didn't use the word 'happy'. He derided himself as an illiterate, but he was much too articulate for his own good. He chose his words with cool precision. Sometimes they were painfully apt. "I hope to be."

"I hope you will be, Marian. You have suffered an unspeakable loss. You would do well to have a man who can offer you real comfort."

This sudden kindness shamed her and suddenly it was hard to meet his gaze. She blinked her eyes, nearly stumbling over the next step. "Thank you, Fenris. That is...good of you to say."

They walked the rest of the way back to Hightown with a distance between them that might have met the approval of a Chantry sister and when they neared her house, he halted well away from the door, as if were a dragon's maw and might devour him whole.

Marian turned on her front steps, waving goodbye, the sunlight catching her ring's polished silver.

He lifted his hand in answer, a more sombre farewell, before he hunched down and strode away, in the opposite direction of his mansion. Likely, he was off to the Mercenaries Guild and Maker only knew what sort of job they'd put him to doing for a handful of silvers.

She sighed, her mind turning with doubts and she opened the door, reminding herself that she could barely manage her own life. He would only resent it if she went rushed in to rescue him from troubles of his own devising.

* * *

At the approach of evening, the shadows in the Chantry courtyard raked long fingers over the grass and birds sang in the willow trees. Fenris squeezed his eyes shut, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped together so tightly that his knuckles must be going white.

_Blessed Andraste, pray for us sinners and lift us from darkness into cleansing light. _

_Holy Andraste, mother of the world, commend us into the Maker's grace and forgive us our misdeeds as we forgive the wrongdoing of others..._

When he prayed, he had to remind himself not to move his lips as he'd done when he first read and memorized the standard petitions. Such gaffes marked him as a new convert and a rather foolish-looking one, besides. It was for this reason that he preferred to work at his devotions on a stone bench in the central courtyard rather than kneeling on a pew in the Chantry proper, where he would present a spectacle for all the other parishioners. Besides, he liked the solitude and the breeze against his face, the way the sun slanted along the stone walls. Even if the Maker didn't exist or if Andraste had decided to ignore his words, the place was pleasant and refreshing to the spirit, the closest a common man might come to nature without leaving Kirkwall.

Fenris sensed a presence behind him and his eyes bolted open. Slavers were always his first thought, even in what should be a sanctuary.

He heard a woman's voice, sharp, grating and familiar. "Look: a praying elf. How reassuring. I'm pleased to see the Qunari haven't got all of them."

He bowed his head a little further, trying to place the voice before he risked showing his face.

"You spend a great deal of time thinking on Qunari converts. Perhaps it'd be better used serving the faithful." This voice, with its Starkhaven burr, was unmistakeably Sebastian's.

"You forget yourself, _Brother_. You may be Elthina's pet, but it is not your place to lecture me on duty."

One set of footsteps marched away and after a brief pause, Sebastian give a low, incredulous chuckle, one clearly calculated to conceal his anger.

"My apologies, Fenris," he said. "Petrice's mind is so much on the state of the faith that sometimes I think she forgets parishioners have ears."

Petrice. The smug Chantry sister who'd abducted a Saarebas and tried to incite the city against the Qunari. He remembered her now: ash blonde hair, narrow lips and small, snaky eyes, a face that was not ugly but still managed to be remarkably unprepossessing, especially when paired with that hectoring voice.

"Sister Petrice. I've made her acquaintance before."

Sebastian sat down on the edge of the bench, sighing. "_Mother_ Petrice now, unfortunately."

"You dislike her." The realization pleased Fenris. It was reassuring to know that even Sebastian was capable of hating someone.

"I am not fond of her politics."

"No. You despise her."

Sebastian laughed. "I evidently need to work harder at concealing my less charitable feelings. Elthina had the same suspicion. Alas, that didn't stop her from promoting the woman. She outranks me now. I'll admit, I find it...displeasing."

"Indeed. It's unfortunate that venomous creature would be suffered to gain position and power while worthier candidates are overlooked. Unfortunate, but unsurprising."

"I can't be too resentful," Sebastian said. "I haven't yet taken my vows. Besides, the Chantry isn't the place a man should go if he's unduly ambitious. Women are the leaders here. Brothers...well, we attend to the quieter duties."

Fenris nodded. He'd noted that the Kirkwall Chantry was one of the few places in the city where females exerted influence. In the Tevinter Chantry, under the Black Divine, it was a different matter. Men held sway there and it seemed to be run more like a state institution than a religion.

"Perhaps it is for the best. Those who seek power are often the least worthy of wielding it."

Sebastian looked rather surprised at this sentiment. "Well said. I agree." He paused, seeming to watch the breeze rustling across the willow trees. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you here. Isn't today Varric's weekly game of Wicked Grace? And after the choice you made with Messieur Dupuis, I thought perhaps that you'd decided Andrasteism might not be for you."

The latter subject was not something that Fenris wished to contemplate. Torturing and killing Dupuis had been nothing more than a reflex, a habit as familiar as cleaning his armour or honing his blade, but it bothered him that he'd lost control of himself, that he might have slaughtered the villain too soon and failed to prevent the death of Marian's mother. He liked to wield his anger as a tool and the notion that it might overpower him was...distressing.

"As it happens, I enjoy your religion," he said. "It was Dupuis I had the problem with. Thankfully, that issue...has been resolved."

"It can't be healthy for you to commit such brutality. To relive parts of your past. Hawke shouldn't have ordered such a thing. "

Fenris frowned. "She ordered nothing."

"Perhaps she didn't issue commands, but she certainly encouraged it..."

"I did not obey. I chose. If you dislike the choice, blame me."

"I wasn't trying to offend you," Sebastian said. "I suppose I just wondered if you'd considered the matter in relation to your prior history."

"You seem to imply that I didn't decide for myself. That is rather offensive to a man who was a slave."

"I just meant that you and Hawke...influence one another. Not always for the best, I think."

"I see."

Perhaps he had a point. The intensity of what he felt when he was with Marian – it could be wonderful, the closest thing to bliss or it could be maddening, destructive and volatile. When they weren't kindred spirits, lost in mutual admiration, they seemed to be bitter rivals, intent on gouging holes in one another. No wonder she'd dropped him like a bad habit and had found herself something more _peaceful_.

"Anyway, maybe I've spoken out of turn," Sebastian said. "What I mean to say is that I'm glad to see you back here. This garden is a good place to pray."

He was quick to deny any sort of religious conversion. "I wasn't praying."

"No? You did a very good imitation of it, then."

"I was resting my eyes and...contemplating."

Sebastian smiled. "Contemplating the blessings of the Maker? You know, that sounds suspiciously like praying."

"I was contemplating my losses."

"That can be a sort of prayer too."

"My gambling losses," Fenris specified.

That earned a chuckle from the Brother. "Ah, yes. As I remember it, Wicked Grace is much more wicked than graceful. How much did you lose?"

He thought of Marian on the steps of her house in her mourning clothes. He'd had to keep his distance because he'd been tempted to kiss away the frown from her lips and that was not he was supposed to do. He was supposed to yield gracefully, to accept his losses with as much equanimity as he'd surrendered his coin. She waved goodbye and the silver band on her finger mocked him. She wore black now but it wouldn't be long until she was dressed all in white.

Fenris forced a rueful smile. He would not let anyone see his regret. "I lost everything I had."


	9. Harvest

Summer mellowed into autumn and before long, the frost began to etch patterns across the high arched windows of the Amell estate. Marian had given up her mourning clothes but the change in season mirrored her mood and it seemed that the world had suddenly become a dank cell, a place where one had to rub one's hands together for warmth and only a few wan shafts of light pierced the gloom. State affairs and preparations for the wedding kept her busy and prevented her from sinking into the melancholy, but there were times when she wondered if it was all just so much frantic scurrying, a way to pretend that she hadn't become numb to almost everything around her.

Marian could still appreciate the beauty and comfort of her manor, but when she spoke, the halls seemed to echo around her and each room was haunted by its own ghost. In her mother's chamber, Leandra waited with a vase full of wilted lilies. In the guestrooms, Bethany shuddered as the darkspawn corruption coursed through her veins and Carver lay belly-up in the dust, gaping up at a cloudless, yellow sky. In the study, she was reminded of her father on his deathbed, seizing her arm with his crabbed hand and making her swear that she would do her duty by them, a promise broken. Marian never lacked for vintage wine or fine meals, such good things, but when she and Saemus sat down to supper, she barely tasted what she chewed and had to remind herself to swallow. Of course, it was better to be rich and grief-stricken than to mourn in poverty. There were other Fereldans who'd suffered much worse, who'd lost everyone they held dear and had to eke out a living in Darktown.

For the most part, her friends were kind and Saemus was supportive, but sometimes Marian felt they were prodding her to forget her grief too quickly and it seemed as if they all _needed_ something. Isabella wanted to drag her out drinking and carousing. Varric kept pumping her for raw material for his stories, whereas Anders would never shut up about his precious mage underground and grew angry when she wouldn't sympathize with their plight. Merrill kept hinting that she needed help with her mirror and Aveline needed someone to intervene on behalf of the guards before the Seneschal cut her funding. Helping with their requests had never bothered her before and often, she'd enjoyed being known as a friend one could depend on, but recently, she'd experienced a twinge of bitterness with every new burden placed upon her shoulders. It was hard to keep giving of her time, her emotions, her energy when she felt so tired and so damnably empty and yet the demands kept coming, buckets clattering against the bottom of a dry well.

Managing Saemus was another matter. He was still earnest, kind-hearted and generous, compassionate almost to a fault, but since their engagement, she'd had glimpses of another side of him, a rebellious, overgrown boy who could be petulant, oversensitive and prone to mood swings that often left her head spinning. Sometimes it seemed that he was less in need of a wife than a mother and he thought nothing of throwing her into the middle of his endless bickering with his father.

It was a family she'd wanted and the Dumars had certainly fulfilled that end of the bargain. She'd worried that the Viscount wouldn't approve of her, but he welcomed her into the household with open arms and while the sense of family was an incredible comfort, it was, at times, positively smothering. It was evident to her that father and son loved one another, but their every interaction was fraught with unspoken hurts and disappointed expectations. They didn't even have to speak to wound one another. The Viscount would simply cast a weary look in Saemus' direction and she'd see Saemus cringe, pained by the awareness that he was somehow inadequate.

Listening to them talk to one another was worse, the emotional equivalent of watching two people rip off one another's scabs. Having allowed her into their lives, they seemed to think it only right that she should play a role in the delightful family dysfunction. When Saemus wasn't railing against the Viscount's staidness and complacency, her future father-in-law was exhorting her to control his son's childish excesses. This was much easier said than done since Saemus was very good at shutting out anything he didn't want to hear or just flitting off, to Maker-knows-where to do Andraste-knew-what. Perhaps what bothered her most about this was that his evasiveness and irresponsibility made her resort to nagging and she caught herself borrowing tactics that her mother had once used on her. There were times when she really didn't like the person she became with him.

Saemus had just completed his daily argument with his father and was about to storm out of the palatial family quarters for the third time that week when she stopped him at the door.

He gave her a perfunctory kiss, completely failing to meet her eyes, and tried to dodge passed her.

"Where are you going?" she demanded, barring his path.

"I'm going out for a little while. I'll...be back soon. Darling." He appended the last word as a guilty afterthought.

When he was about to do something silly and impulsive, Saemus became absurdly sentimental with her, behaving as if he actually believed the performance they were putting on of being in love. They'd put on many public displays of affection since the engagement had become official – pet names, hand-holding, goofy smiles and kisses, spoon-feeding each other cake on Feast Day. At first, Marian had found it funny, their secret prank on Kirkwall society, but the game wore thin when he tried to recycle the same lies in their private conversations.

"I'll glad you won't be away for long, dearest" – she put an ironic emphasis on the term of endearment – "However, I would like to know where I can find you." She suspected that he'd avoided the question because she would not like the answer.

"Marian, truly, you needn't be concerned. I'm perfectly capable of managing myself and besides, I believe we agreed that it was healthy for us to maintain individual interests..."

"When we made this arrangement, we also agreed that we'd be honest with each other," she said. "I just want to know that you aren't going to the Docks."

When she said the Docks, she meant the Qunari Compound. He'd visited the place twice since their engagement and it did nothing to help the Viscount's peace of mind or increase the city's confidence in Dumar rule. Besides, it made Marian antsy. Saemus idealized the Qunari, but they were dangerous and becoming increasingly desperate in Kirkwall. It wouldn't take much for the situation with them to boil over and if they had the Viscount's heir conveniently within reach, they might take him as a hostage – or worse. The Arishok would think nothing of decapitating some earnest, well-meaning boy if it furthered the Qun and indeed, he'd expect a good follower of the path to gladly submit to the chopping block if that were deemed his assigned 'role'.

Saemus frowned. "You're beginning to sound like my father."

"We both care about you. I don't want to see you hurt. You know that diplomacy with the Arishok isn't going well..."

"Perhaps it isn't going well because we refuse to take the time to listen to what the Qunari have to say."

"I've listened. I've studied their books. I've worked for months on learning the language. And personally, I'm getting mighty weary of the demands of the Qun and the Arishok's personal brand of stupid."

Saemus shot her a look of annoyance. "Persistent, yes. Hardly stupid."

"The last time I was at the Compound, he had a tantrum because he isn't enjoying his vacation in Kirkwall," she said. "There's nothing more disheartening than watching an eight-foot-tall behemoth throw a pissy little fit that would have shamed a two-year-old child. If you'd seen it, it might have shattered a few of your notions about the wonderful nobility of the Qunari."

"He has cause to be angry. Look at how his people are treated, confronted with prejudice and suspicion on all sides..."

She sighed. "Saemus, I know you find them intriguing, but surely there are other places to spend your private time. I have no objection to you going over to the Blooming Rose and finding someone appropriately tall, chiselled and muscular. Why, you can paste horns to his head if you like. I don't begrudge you your fun. But please stay away from the Docks."

"It's insulting that you'd reduce my sympathy for the Qunari to some kind of...fetish. It's a great deal more than that and you know it."

"You're right. It's also a delightful way to provoke your father."

That last remark made his blue eyes spark with anger. "You know nothing of me and my father. And while we're discussing each other's peccadilloes, I could bring up the topic of your 'lessons' with the elf. It's hardly the sort of discretion I asked from you."

"I'm teaching him to read."

"Can't you simply get him a tutor?"

The possibility had never even occurred to her, although she could certainly afford it. She enjoyed teaching Fenris too much, taking pleasure in seeing him master new words and successively more advanced books. "He wouldn't accept that. It'd embarrass him."

"Well, since we're being honest with one another, frankly, your behaviour with him embarrasses me."

"We aren't even having sex, Saemus." She knew better to think he was jealous. It was his pride that vexed him. He might like Qunari horns, but he didn't want anyone thinking that his prospective wife had given him any, even if their marriage was a sham.

"The way you look at each other is about as near as you can get to it with your clothes still on. And you do it publicly. It'd probably be a sight better if you two went off to rut in some corner and just got it out your systems. It would certainly be more subtle."

She shook her head, turning away from him. "You knew I came with a certain history going into this."

"Yes. And you realized the same with me. So you can keep your lessons with elves, but I reserve the right to spend time at the Compound. We each get to indulge our little whims."

"I just...want you to be safe."

He bent forward, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'm grateful for the concern, but you need to trust in me. I don't need rescuing."

"I remember that all too well," she forced a smile despite her misgivings. Even when they fought, he was still her friend, one of the nearest and dearest she could lay claim to these days. "I suppose it's in my nature to feel...protective." She paused, taking a deep breath. "You know, even if the Qunari aren't a threat to the city, they aren't going to stay forever. One day, they will have to return to Par Vollen."

"I know," he said sadly. "I dread that day. I fear it will come...too soon. There is still so much to learn about them."

He put on a smile to match the faltering one she wore for him and gave her hand a soft squeeze. "If I'm not back tonight, don't stay up. And don't fret. I shall see you tomorrow."

When Saemus walked out the door, she considered tailing him, just to keep an eye out, but she knew that it'd be nearly impossible if he ventured behind the walls of the Qunari Compound. Instead, she passed the evening playing chess with the Viscount, who was quite a clever strategist when he had a chequered board in front of him. If Meredith had been a black knight or Orsino a white rook he would have been able to manipulate their movements, to understand the rules that governed their behaviour. But the Viscount's dry logic didn't work against the passionate rhetoric of zealots and Marian could see it was wearing down him, just as the city's white chalk cliffs slowly eroded with each turn of the tide, crumbling into a ravenous sea.

The next morrow, the seamstress, Mistress Deschamps, came to her estate to conduct fittings for the wedding gown. Marian put on the shimmering white dress and stood on a wooden box while the Orlesian woman made adjustments, adjusting the length of the train and nipping the fabric around the waist in with pins.

Deschamps clicked her tongue against her teeth. "You have lost ze weight, no?"

"I might have. It wasn't intentional."

"You did. Now I must take everyt'ing een. In Vaux Royaux, ze ladies used to say, "You can never be too thin or too rich". The last part may be true, but the first is not, I promise you. You get too thin, mademoiselle, your pretty face start to look harsh. Ees not good for your hairs either."

Marian gave a slight smile at the translation failure, preferring the sight of Deschamps' plump, powdered face to her own refection. "Yes, I'm sure you're right. I...will make an effort to take better care of myself."

"Good. We want you to stay beautiful for your big day, yes? Now take my advice and eat ze chocolate cake."

Marian glanced up at her face in the mirror. It was true. Her face looked narrower, her eyes large and wistful, her jaw line and the cut of her cheekbones more prominent. She'd always had an athletic figure, broad-shouldered and long-limbed, but now she seemed wirier, lean muscles clearly outlined under her skin. She looked tough and spare, like the survivor, the refugee, the grieving daughter she was, but this sweet, frothy dress didn't match this new person she'd become. Her leather armour, buttery soft with wear, would have suited her better. Marian wasn't sure she liked the way her reflection had altered. She looked hard and glittering, like a knife's edge. She looked like she'd lost the last of her innocence.

She and Saemus were supposed to pick out a wedding cake later that afternoon. She'd have to make sure to eat from all of the samples.

There was a knock at the door and Deschamps scuttled over to answer it.

The messenger was scarcely more than a child and dressed in the blue and gold livery of the Dumar household. "For Lady Marian Hawke," he said, carefully enunciating each word. "It's the important. From His Grace."

Marian nodded at the boy and pointed to her purse on the desk. "You've done well. Take two silvers for your trouble."

The boy darted forward eagerly, handing her the message and then helping himself to the coin. "Thank you, m'lady." He'd whipped out the door before she'd even had time to tear open the envelope.

The letter was not written in Seneschal Bryden's meticulous script but in the Viscount's own hand, a thin, wavering cursive. At the top of the paper was the image of the golden lion rampant.

_Marian, it grieves me to tell you this, but I fear Saemus has committed a terrible blunder. One of my sworn men has just informed me that he has run to the Qunari and intends to convert to their cause. I don't need to tell you what this means for both of us, on a personal level as well as a political one._

_I know that my son would reject my interference out-of-hand, but he admires you and you still wield influence over him. I am aware that your relationship with Saemus is a complicated one and has only become more complex with this foolish defection to the Qun. I understand that you have already undertaken much for the sake of this family. I ask you to do just one thing more, not for myself, but for Saemus' sake and for the continued safety and prosperity of Kirkwall. Bring him back. Return him to me and to his duty, so that the Qunari cannot use him as a political pawn. I would not ask this of you if I did not think you were the only one who might manage it. Please save my son from his own folly before it is too late. _

Beneath the Viscount's shaky-handed signature, he'd written another line in brackets, one that almost made her snicker:

_(Please remember to burn after reading.)_

Marian hadn't required the reminder. There were spies everywhere and it was best not to commit anything to writing if it could be helped. The letter itself was a sign of the Viscount's desperation. In less urgent circumstances, he would have summoned her to a private audience in his garden, not because he loved the open air, but because in the Keep, even the walls were listening.

"I have to go," she told Deschamps, tossing the letter into the hearth fire. As the parchment withered and burned, she armed herself, strapped on her pauldrons and light chestplate over her dress and tugged her gauntlets over her forearms. Lifting the skirts of her gown, she kicked off her Orlesian heels and pulled on her well-worn boots, the leather stained with blood and encrusted with mud, but all the more comfortable for that.

"But, mademoiselle, your dress...you must..."

The dress was the least of her worries. She wasn't going to have any other occasion to wear it. "It looks like my big day came early. Fear not, you will be paid for your trouble."

Marian dashed down the stairs, trying to slow the jumble of thoughts crowding her mind. She was already too emotional and she would need back-up before she could confront the Arishok. In all the time she'd spent studying the Qun, she'd still never encountered any loopholes that one might use to override the free will of a videthari. The Qunari rarely questioned the intentions of their converts, as long as they gave themselves over wholeheartedly and the Arishok held onto his followers the way a miser clung to gold.

Nevertheless, she still held out hope that a diplomatic solution might be possible, if only she could turn the Qun's twisted logic in on itself and somehow convince the Qunari leadership that keeping Saemus would contradict their principles and damage their honour. No individual's will would ever be placed higher than the sanctity of the Qun and if Saemus' presence was seen to threaten this social balance, they might be persuaded to expel him.

Of course, to manage this, she would require the guidance of an expert, someone who knew the Qunari well enough to beat them at their own game. It was unfortunate that the one person she had the most need of was the one she was most reluctant to ask.

* * *

Fenris gave a start, hearing footsteps pounding up the rickety stairs of the mansion. Tossing aside his book, he dragged his greatsword from across the floor with his heel and reached over, gripping the hilt in the palm of his hand. He launched himself to his feet and crept towards his chamber door, the length of the sword extended before him.

"Fenris?"

He lowered his sword, feeling foolish. He kept anticipating an attack, almost hoping for one, but the voice was Marian's, not that of some slaver leading a pack of mercenaries. But why had she come rushing as if she'd set her hair afire? Marian had never been a great proponent of social graces, but usually, she had the courtesy to knock. This courtesy had only become more marked since that fateful evening when he'd...when he'd gone to her, likely because the other boundaries between them were so frayed and confused.

He flung open the door and found her striding down the hall towards him. She looked distressed, her lips tight and grim, her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders. Her attire was truly absurd, leather armour on her top half and a frothy white gown on her bottom, completed by the oldest and filthiest pair of boots in her possession, a pair that he knew she treasured because they'd come with her from Lothering.

"Fenris, are you busy?"

It was a funny question to ask him. It wasn't as if he was known for keeping a packed schedule. Under other circumstances, he might have pretended to be doing something terribly important just for the pleasure of teasing her, but it was clear that this wasn't a good time to be indulging in his rare bouts of contrary humour.

"Not especially. How did you get in?" He'd invested some time in securing the place from intruders and her ability to just wander in on a whim disturbed him.

She shrugged. "I was down there pounding on the door, but you took your sweet time in answering. Easier just to pick the lock."

He hadn't heard her knocking, but then the book had been an absorbing one and he'd been in the midst of discovering how Shartan had defeated five legions of Tevinter soldiers with a ragtag army of slaves.

"You are aware I set traps down there."

"I saw. Easily avoided," she said. "I also noted the decaying remains on the floor. So much nicer than a welcome mat."

He'd boiled the flesh from those old bones specifically for the purpose of leaving them in plain view of the foyer entrance. They were intended as a warning to any future bands of slavers. "I'm a hospitable sort. What brings you here?"

She brushed a strands of hair behind her ear, giving a light sigh. "I need your help and I know you're not going to like it."

"Does it involve freeing mages?"

She shook her head. "No."

He narrowed his eyes. "Does it involve helping Anders with his ridiculous problems?"

"No."

"It's about Merrill, then, and her demons. Coddling the witch will do no good..."

"It's about Saemus," she blurted out. "He's with the Qunari."

He frowned, not sure whether he should be pleased to be rid of the boy or annoyed that she wanted him to help reclaim him. "With the Qunari? He is videthari?"

"Yes." She paused, taking a breath, the strain of this admission showing on her face. "As it happens, my fiancé eloped with the Arishok. I suppose I didn't bring enough...horns to the relationship."

Despite the jape, he could see that she was upset. He had observed that she was most prone to such jests when she became fearful, perhaps believing that self-deprecation was preferable to the mockery of others.

"Well, you certainly bring an unusual fashion sense," he noted, nodding at her peculiar costume. "The boy is clearly even more of a fool than I surmised. Why should you bother to haul him back?"

She pondered this, before shaking her head. "I don't know. Frankly, if it were up to me, I might just let him have his stupid Qun. But there's the Viscount and city politics to consider. Besides, while he may have acted the fool, I don't wish to see Saemus get hurt in the cross-fire. This has become a dangerous business."

"You have a habit of showing kindness to those who wrong you."

She gave a sniff. "I guess you disapprove."

"I...do not. It is admirable, if not always practical," he said. "You have my blade, Marian."

"Thank you," she murmured. "Hopefully we shall not have any need of swords."

She looked both relieved and a little ashamed of herself, clearly conscious of the fact that his aid had nothing to do with Saemus. After gritting his teeth together for months, tolerating the boy's intrusion into the pleasant routine of reading lessons with Marian, biting back his anger every time the insipid fool kissed her hand or draped his arm around her shoulder, Fenris would've savour the thought of him getting shipped off to Par Vollen. Yet, having pledged herself to the Dumars, he knew Marian would not abandon them. It wasn't even a matter of honour with a headstrong woman like her, just of affection and the fierce, almost maternal protectiveness that she and Aveline held in common, a Fereldan trait, perhaps. It was one of the reasons people were so quick to gravitate to her, to hide behind her leadership. Perhaps even he was guilty of it, relying on her friendship as a shield.

Fenris glanced down at the red band still knotted around his wrist. He'd made a vow too, one too perilous for either of them to acknowledge aloud, and he would keep it. He had no great love for the Dumars or for Kirkwall, but for her...perhaps he had a streak of protectiveness in him as well, the instinct of a trained bodyguard. He would not allow her to walk into danger alone.

* * *

Hidden behind wooden palisades, the Qunari Compound was a forbidding place, a barren patch of ground with no shade or shelter except for tarps flapping from the walls and several dingy white tents. Marian blinked into the blinding sunlight, parched grass crunching under her boots and dust swirling around the hem of her gown as she strode past a cluster of Qunari soldiers cleaning and honing their blades, moving towards the Arishok's seat at the steepest point of the encampment.

The fishy reek of the Docks wafted over the high barricades and the stink of the sewers seeped underneath them, and unlike the city outside, the Compound didn't have the benefit of an ocean breeze to sweep the stench away. Marian wrinkled her nose, wondering how even the stony Qunari could tolerate four years spent in tedium amidst such horrendous conditions. It was no wonder they thought Kirkwall was a pit of filth if this patch of land was what they stared at day in and day out. The Arishok must be starting to go stir-crazy, she thought, regardless of the Qun's infernal demands.

When they'd arrived at the Compound, Fenris had slowed his pace and fallen a few steps behind her, something that she noticed he always did in the presence of Qunari. She presumed it had something to do with setting up the illusion of hierarchy, something that the Arishok would understand and respect, but perhaps he was simply watching her back.

Either way, she felt a renewed surge of gratitude for his presence, not only because of his knowledge of the Qun but because of the strange, almost hypnotic calmness that he exuded in the most desperate of situations. Just the sound of his footsteps behind her made her feel more grounded, although she knew they were far from safe. The Qunari were everywhere and while they appeared to pay little heed to the bas in their midst, Marian knew they were tracking their every movement, prepared to retaliate at the first sign of aggression.

She approached the Arishok, who sat, enthroned, on his hill of dirt, his massive body barely contained by high-backed mahogany chair. He frowned at her, furrowing his heavy brow and stood, taking a few steps down the stairs towards her. "What brings you here, basra?"

"I've come for Saemus Dumar." She didn't mention her relation to him or how his decision to become videthari would mean the end of their engagement and everything that went with it. If the Arishok was interested in such details, his spies had likely already informed him. He would not care about the personal side of the situation, how Saemus' defection would impact her or his father or the sense of betrayal she felt after having invested so much of her future in the Viscount's son.

"He has chosen the Qun. The videthari is not yours to demand."

She felt her cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. The damned 'videthari' should make an appearance and explain why he'd turned tail and fled, leaving her holding the bag for their ill-conceived marriage and all the pomp and ceremony that were to go with it. It was humiliating to have to ask the Arishok's permission to speak to the man who would have been her husband. If she kept her indignation down, it was only because she could feel Fenris' cautioning gaze upon the back of her neck, bearing down with almost as much heat as the afternoon sun.

She tried a tactic that she and Fenris had discussed on the way over. "He may wish to escape to your Qun, but that is not his choice to make. His role is to lead Kirkwall and he cannot betray that duty."

The Arishok mulled this over, pacing to and fro across the dusty landing, his clawed hands folded behind his back. "A clever ploy, trying to claim a path for the purposeless. You attempt to appeal to what is right, what is meaningful, but you forget that your way is not the Qun."

"Your so-called videthari was born to a role and a path, one that he would betray to indulge his own personal desires," she shot back. "Is that not the essence of the Tal-Vashoth? If he doesn't have the discipline to follow his first path in life, what makes you think he can serve the Qun? I didn't know the Qunari were in the habit of accepting traitors and weaklings."

"Hm. You weary me with your insolence. Perhaps I will allow you to have the bas just so I may have some peace from this sophistry. I do, however, find it strange that a letter was not enough and that you must make an appearance as well."

"What do you mean?"

The Arishok's expression did not alter, but there was a hint of scorn in his voice. "The videthari is not here. He has already gone to meet you at your Chantry. If you wish to reclaim him, I suggest you go there."

She frowned, giving him a nod in place of a bow, and turned away from the tiresome brute, annoyed that he had not given her that information the moment she'd said Saemus' name.

Fenris caught her look of frustration and his mouth quirked with a hint of wry amusement. Marian kept her silence until they'd cleared the Qunari Compound by a good hundred metres. When they were finally out of earshot (and striking range) of the guards, she muttered a dozen of her favourite curses and then borrowed a few of Isabella's best ones for good measure.

"Feel better?" he asked, when she was done.

"I do. That was...cleansing to the soul."

He arched an eyebrow at that, one of his eloquent little gestures. "To the Chantry then?"

She nodded, gritting her teeth together and offering him a grim smile. "To the Chantry."

* * *

They discovered Saemus kneeling at the high altar, his dark head bowed and his arms dangling limply at his sides.

Fenris glared at the back of the boy's neck, annoyed at this show of devotion mere hours after the fool had gone blithely prancing off to the Qunari. He watched as Marian sidled over and crouched down beside him, the skirt of her white gown pooling over the crimson carpet. She'd been angry before, but now she was quiet and almost unbearably gentle, as if quieting a skittish horse.

The boy didn't deserve such consideration, not after the way he'd hurt her, but Fenris gnawed the insides of his cheeks and held his peace, knowing that he was in no position to object. She'd offered him this mercy too, when he'd been too weak to stand by her, masking her hurt under the same appearance of good grace.

"Saemus?" Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

When the boy did not answer, her hand moved to his shoulder. At the merest brush of her fingers, his body crumpled to the floor.

Marian gave a choked gasp and bent forward, fumbling as she heaved Saemus over onto his back. The boy stared up at the domed ceiling with glassy blue eyes, lifeless.

Fenris grasped the hilt of his sword, assessing the room for an imminent threat, but they appeared to be alone with the corpse. The sanctum's inner recesses still echoed with Marian's cry.

He took a few measured steps towards Saemus' body, fighting the impulse to seize Marian by the shoulders, haul her up and drag her away from the corpse, to keep her prisoner in his arms. He hated her pain and he hated the boy who'd caused it, with his fickleness and folly and his inconvenient and piteous way of dying. His gaze tracked over Saemus' face, searching for a grimace of pain, an expression of panic or astonishment, but instead, he found an enviable serenity. He might have thought the death had been natural, if weren't for the faint bruising around the boy's throat, almost entirely concealed by the high collar of his blue silk jacket.

"You poor fool," Marian murmured, smoothing the hair back from Saemus' brow. "You lied to me. You said we'd be happy."

Fenris felt like an intruder, listening to her talking to the dead and yet he wanted to say something, if only to fill up the space where Saemus should have answered.

"This was no accident. The boy was strangled." His voice came out gruffer than he'd planned, as if he wouldn't have minded doing the strangling himself. He'd certainly contemplated it, at moments, when he'd seen Saemus enjoying comforts and pleasures he could not taste, could not even bring himself to swallow, and yet still desired and...envied.

Marian eased up to her feet, still transfixed by Saemus' stillness. "Yes. I saw the marks."

Fenris didn't like the faraway look in her eyes, how they glistened without tears, flame-like shadows wavering in the depths of her pupils. It made him uneasy.

"We should inform the Viscount."

"It will break him," she said, hollow-voiced. "It would be kinder to cut his head from his shoulders."

"Marian."

Her gaze snapped back to his face. "Yes?"

"Speak your mind."

"When do I not?"

"Talk to me, not to the dead. They do not listen."

"Nor should they," she said. "I've failed everyone who ever loved me, who ever put their trust in me."

"That is untrue."

She took out her curved daggers, her cold smile reflected in the gleam of the polished steel. "I'll make Saemus' murderer mourn. He'll cry tears of blood before this day is through."

"If you wish to grieve, there is no shame in it." He remembered how she'd cried for her mother, her head pressed against his shoulder, tears wetting his skin. If she needed that again, he could overcome his trepidation and linger with her while she grieved. Perhaps this time his arm would find its way to her back and she'd find him a more comfortable support.

"Better to make them grieve. My tears have dried up," she said. "Besides, I may not be able to save a life, but I have a talent for making corpses. Might as well put it to use."

Mother Petrice's zealots and templars were the first to bleed. When they attacked, Marian fought like a woman possessed, mowing through them as if she were scything grain for the harvest. Fenris found himself lagging behind her, stepping over the bodies she left in her wake. She'd always been an impressive fighter, but where she'd once hesitated, feinting, dodging, giving lesser enemies the chance to yield or flee, now she threw herself unflinchingly into the slaughter and it seemed less a battle she waged than a hunt, one in which all her opponents were unwitting prey. Fenris recognized the compulsion all too well, unsure whether to admire her skill or deplore the way she flung herself into dangerous confrontations, incurring greater risks to inflict more damage. Until recently, it'd been his preferred style of combat, too, raw and thrilling, but recently, he'd become more contemplative, more...judicious. He wanted life more than ever and it disturbed him to see her so willing to risk herself.

Even when all of Petrice's servants lay dead, hacked bodies strewn across the Chantry floor, Marian was still unsatisfied. Not even the Qunari arrow buried in the Mother's skull could give her the peace she desired.

"Blasted Qunari," she muttered, reaching down and ripping the Chantry amulet from Petrice's neck. "They had no right. The bitch belonged to me."

"It's better this way," he assured her. "If they'd let her live, you would've had to give her over for a trial."

She smirked at this. "Oh, I'd have let them send her to the Keep. My home away from home. The woman would've had a trial, but it wouldn't have happened in any courtroom."

They sat down on the steps leading up to the altar, waiting in silence for the Viscount's arrival.

On impulse, Fenris reached over and unbuckled the armour covering the top half of her gown, surprised when she did not resist him. Instead, she wiped the blood from her cheeks with her fingers, regarding him with a sad, searching expression.

"I'm alone now."

"You're not alone."

She flicked the skirts of her wedding gown, the satin splotched with blood. "I'm full of hate, Fenris. Who'd stay to drink such poison?"

He gripped her fist in his hand, roughly squeezing her fingers, surprised anew at how small and delicate her bones felt under the silk of her skin. He'd drink that poison. He'd take it straight from the bottle and gulp down every draught as if it were summer wine.

His voice was more forceful this time. "You are _not alone_."

She nodded, closing her eyes and he touched her cheek, rubbing the last traces of blood away with his thumb.

He glared at her, willing her free from this haze of grief and the worm of self-pity. Rage - that was better, more nourishing. It would keep her alive and strong. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes."

He resisted the sudden urge to press his lips to her ear, to nip the tender flesh of the lobe and sink his teeth into her neck. He wanted to bite her just to shock her, to wake her up and perhaps win himself a little retaliation, her nails rending his back or her mouth against his, tearing the breath from his lungs. They could ravage each other and every pain, every cruel pleasure they took would be a reminder that they would still living, amongst these dead. Anything, anything would've been better than this numb silence.

"Tell me you understand, Marian."

Her eyes blinked open. She lifted her free hand, lightly tracing her fingertips over the ridges of his knuckles. "I understand, Fenris."

He did not know love and if he'd ever been capable of such a feeling, he could not remember it. Hate, however, had been his intimate companion for years, the serpent nestled around his heart, what he'd taken to bed each night and woken up to every morning, what he ate, what he drank, what he breathed. By now, it'd seeped into the marrow of his bones. He might not know how to love her but they could hate together.


	10. Rituals and Experiments

After she killed the Arishok, they called Marian the Champion - at least that was what they said to her face. Behind her back, she was known as the Black Bride and they told stories about how she'd dyed her blood-spattered wedding gown black and worn it to Saemus' funeral procession or how she'd cut off the Arishok's head and put it on a satin cushion beside that of the murdered Viscount.

The first story was true, the second was an invention, probably attributable to Varric in one form or another. She hadn't kept the Arishok's skull to use as a goblet, but she had taken his sword and had it beaten down to nothing but a lump of steel. The Qunari would have deemed that the greater insult.

All that winter, Marian could only remember herself laughing twice. Once, after the Viscount's funeral, when Fenris had remarked that the Qunari would have done well to kill Orsino and Meredith and, again, when she'd gone to Aveline's office and found a templar standing outside the door, claiming that he'd been sent to guard the Guard-Captain. These days, her laughter was a bitter sound, the noise of swords clanging together and all her jests seemed to happen over corpses.

She was the Champion of Kirkwall and she hated the place. If she opposed Orsino's grand-standing and Meredith's petty tyrannies, it was not out of some great civic virtue or because she desired to take up where the Dumars have left off. She did it out of spite, because she disliked them both in equal measure and because she would not give either one of them the satisfaction of having Kirkwall for their own. Marian knew it was only a matter of time until the city broke out into another slaughter. Occasionally, she wondered if it might not be best to clear the people out and set the place ablaze herself, burning the rats and the sewers and the centuries of evil that festered there, 'til there was nothing but scorched earth, a stain where the city had stood.

As time passed, Marian relearned the social graces and become more cheerful, recovering her ability to jest, to flatter and tell pleasant lies to make people smile. Nevertheless, she was an altered woman, colder, steelier, more responsible but also more willing to be brutal in her methods, and all around her knew it.

Her friendships changed as the years passed. Isabella seemed ashamed of her role in the duel with the Arishok and had fled Kirkwall for greener pastures, sending infrequent letters full of bawdy chatter and little news. Meanwhile, Marian's relations with Merrill had cooled, as she found herself less willing to ignore the girl's constant folly. She had less patience for the stubbornness of mages in general and every time she encountered Anders, they'd fight over politics and he'd storm off in a huff, grumbling under his breath. She'd heard on good authority that he'd taken to shooting his mouth off about her at the Hanged Man and that he'd gone traipsing about calling Fenris a beast and mocking the time she'd spend teaching him to read.

"_You put a rabid wolf in a room with a bitch in heat and you shouldn't wonder at what you get. Mongrel logic and savagery. The Champion of Kirkwall is the champion of templars, tyrants and illiterates. She cares nothing for the rights of mages or the good of the city and she's well-satisfied to let her pet lap the blood from her hands."_

The Wolf's Bitch. That was another nickname to add to her growing pile. Of course, if Marian had confronted Anders, he would've denied saying it, or better yet, attributed the rant to his dear friend, Justice. He was good at shifting blame and being possessed by a demon seemed to make things even more convenient for him.

There were some friendships, however, that deepened with the change. Varric was generous with Marian, even on her worst days and Aveline seemed almost relieved at her sudden turn away from frivolity.

The Captain was a frequent guest at the Hawke estate, hauling Donnic along when she suspected Fenris might be lurking around. The two men hardly seemed like obvious friends, but they banded together nonetheless – awkwardly, at first, seeming to realize that they were obliged to be pleasant and sociable, but they started to warm to one another when they realized they had cards in common. Neither one of them was particularly fond of conversation, but they did like to drink and gamble and it wasn't long before Marian found herself walking into Fenris' mansion and discovering that she'd intruded on some bizarre rite of taciturn male bonding.

"Do you two want to be left alone?" she'd asked the first time she'd walked in on their card game, arching a mocking brow.

"No need. Stay." Fenris pushed out the chair beside him with his foot.

Donnic had worn such a guilty, gut-sick expression that one might have thought she'd caught the two of them abed with half the whores in the Rose. "Please don't mention this to Aveline."

"Never fear. Discretion is my middle name."

She'd lingered for a while, watching the two of them play and drinking the cheap, cloudy red wine Donnic had brought for the occasion, until she'd realized how intent they were on their cards. Her attempts to initiate the sort of banter they had at their Wicked Grace sessions had fallen flat, earning the barest of replies, often little more than grunts or nods.

"Are you two always this dull or is this just for my benefit?" she'd inquired.

Fenris had played a card. "This is hardly dull. The guardsman just won two silvers."

"Hm. It seems neither of us chose a woman who appreciates cards," Donnic said.

It didn't seem to occur to the guardsman that he'd stuck his foot squarely in his mouth, but Marian had caught the way Fenris' mouth twitched into a frown, his gaze turning to the coin on the table. He hadn't contradicted the statement, but he didn't respond to it either, which seemed to be par for the course with him whenever one of their friends made reference to a relationship between them.

It wasn't a relationship, of course – at least not a conventional one, but Marian's life had been far from typical for a long time. She would have been content to call Fenris her friend, a close companion, but their relation didn't quite conform to that definition either, since they would conduct what she thought of as 'experiments', dabbling in moments of affection and even a shame-faced intimacy.

She let Fenris get away with touching her in ways that were much too friendly for friendship. Sometimes it was simple, relatively innocent. They'd be sitting in her study and she'd be writing letters while he struggled with a new book, when she'd realize that her free hand was on his thigh and his fingers had locked around hers.

Now that the Qunari were gone, she no longer devoted as much time to studying their culture and he'd begun to teach her a few words of Tevinter instead.

"Tell me a good threat to use on slavers," she teased him.

"You'd be wiser to save your breath. I used to inform them how advisable it would be to go back to Tevinter and consider a new profession. They never listened."

"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of something to say while I'm watching a slaver bleed to death."

"Oh." That got a smile out of him. "In that case, I'd suggest: 'Volito ut inritas. Meus vicis esta costoso quod vestri cruor esta non.'

"'Hurry onward to the Void. My time is precious and your blood is not,'" she translated. "Witty. You've obviously had some practice at this."

Her memory was as good as ever, but her pronunciation was still dreadful and sometimes, after several failed attempts at a word, he'd touch her face, moving her lips into the proper shape. That was often when they dabbled in kisses, of varying duration and intensity. His lips might brush against the edge of her smile, so brief and soft it felt like a passing breeze, or he'd launch himself at her, pushing her back against the writing desk, his mouth hot against hers, his tongue sliding across her teeth. Fenris seemed to have been feeling particularly adventurous the day that occurred, because he'd slipped his hand under the top of her bodice and cupped her breast, thumbing her nipple into a hard point. Her arousal seemed to please him and he'd given a soft chuckle but then, he'd remembered himself and mouthing a sudden excuse, he'd beat a hasty retreat back to the mansion.

They'd had a few close calls when it went came to locking lips or long, torrid embraces and once she'd wound up on the desk with her legs wrapped around his hips, feeling the stiffness of his cock through his breeches and the heat between her thighs as he pressed against her. She'd been the one to put an end to that, hating how desperately she wanted him and knowing that he'd only disappoint her.

Generally, she found it was best, easiest to manage, if they restricted themselves to quieter studies, the odd kiss on the neck, the ear, the hand, the forehead, the cheek. When he was in the right mood, he'd let her nuzzle against him and he might even venture to pet her hair and stroke her back with the palm of his hand, something she found so comforting that sometimes she had to look away or risk him seeing her weak and teary-eyed.

She didn't attach any hope to what passed between them, no matter how kindly he might look at her, how gentle or how impassioned he might seem. They were just tests, allowing her to dip a toe back into the shark-infested waters of feeling...well, of feeling anything at all. It wasn't as if these experiments happened with any sort of consistency anyway. They could go weeks, even months with nothing more than words or glances passing between them and then something would occur, often a trivial event – it'd be rainy outside or he'd get into an argument with someone at the Mercenary Guild or she'd feel a little more cheery than usual – and they'd fall into each other's arms. She never felt compelled to analyze it and it was evident that he dreaded having to talk about it and consequently, these occasions often felt like daydreams, fantasies she'd invented to entertain herself on quiet afternoons.

There were other peculiarities, too, that prevented Marian from being able to say Fenris was simply a friend. The red scarf she'd given him had been shredded by Qunari swords in the battle for Kirkwall, for example, but the very next day, he'd turned up at her mansion with a replacement, not quite the same shade of red, but close enough that it'd made her blink. She'd originally bought the scarf from a merchant back in Lothering, one of the few who visited the town with luxury items and she hadn't realized it would be a common find here in Kirkwall.

"Where'd you find this?" she asked.

"Lowtown. I thought that it might prove useful."

He'd handed it to her and she'd stared at him from her bedside, where she was still nursing her wounds from that ill-advised duel with the Arishok, her chest swathed in bandages from two broken ribs, her torso covered by a blanket instead of a shirt.

After she'd accepted the token, he'd looked at her expectantly and it had taken a moment for her to realize that he was hoping she'd return it to him.

It was an odd gesture. She'd never understood how a cynic like Fenris had become so attached to this chivalric notion of wearing a lady's favour. Perhaps it was merely a function of habit. In Tevinter, he'd told her, duels were common-place and most men were prone to keeping favours about them, for luck or to show affiliation with a cause, political, spiritual or personal. If they died in a fight, the items were supposed to go to their seconds, so that they might be returned to a loved one.

"Here," she said, wrapping the scarf around his wrist. "Your ensemble could use a little colour."

He knotted the fabric twice, securing it to his spiked gauntlet, before offering her a rather embarrassed bow of the head. "Thank you."

That second scarf had lasted nearly a year by her count, before he'd brought her another and they'd repeated the ritual. He seemed to have developed a fondness for such things, especially since his conversion to Andrasteism. That had been an unqualified victory for Sebastian, one of the few he'd enjoyed in his many attempts to convert their circle of acquaintance to the faith.

Marian had attended Fenris' baptism, although she'd found it difficult to keep her mind on spiritual matters when he'd stripped down practically to his smallclothes and plunged into a pool of water, emerging with water dripping from his hair and beading down his bared chest. She had glanced at the Chantry Mother performing the ceremony to see if she was having a similar reaction, but the woman had her eyes firmly shut and seemed to be fully intent on the Chant. Marian wound up feeling thoroughly pervy and ashamed of herself, but spent the rest of the ceremony devising subtle ways to ogle him from behind her prayer book. She'd forgotten how striking his markings looked against the muscles of his back and shoulders and how they curved softly over his lower back and down his tailbone, dropping out of sight beneath the damp fabric clinging to his hips and butt. She realized it was terribly sacrilegious to spend almost an entire baptism ceremony contemplating a man's ass. Perhaps Andraste would be kind enough to chalk it up as appreciation of the fine works of the Maker.

Aside from giving her the rare opportunity to see him wet and shirtless, Marian had little interest in Fenris' piety and sometimes she even found it threatening. It didn't help that Sebastian had apparently been appointed his "spiritual advisor" and was always hovering around, encouraging him to be churchy and think about what Andraste would do. She still respected Chantry teachings, but she didn't like venturing into the place since Saemus' murder and it annoyed her when Sebastian harassed her to come join them for lauds prayers.

"It will make you feel better," he said.

The idea of kneeling at that altar made her sick to her stomach. If one looked carefully, one could still see bloodstains on the carpet. "It won't."

"You're always welcome, you know. Elthina understands that the violence in the Chantry wasn't your fault. You were attacked. You had to defend yourself."

Marian had been attacked and they'd been willing to kill her for their precious creed, but near the end, some of Petrice's followers had lost their courage and tried to run. She'd chased them down and killed them, every single one. If Elthina had deigned to look at the corpses, she would have seen that some of them had been stabbed through the back. Marian would've done the same to Petrice too, if she'd had the chance.

"I'm glad that praying works for you and for Fenris. It doesn't give me anything but sore knees."

"We'll pray for you then," Sebastian told her.

She'd smirked at him, finding that a trifle presumptious. "Good luck with that."

She knew Sebastian meant well, but she could do without his prayers. It was clear to her now that if the Maker existed, He didn't have time for her and that Andraste's petitions to Him were ignored, like any wife's nagging. If Fenris could take comfort in the Chant, then she was glad he had it, but it didn't do anything to make sense of the loss she'd experienced. Faith could not be her shield.

* * *

Over the past few years, Fenris had watched Marian descend into an abyss that looked so familiar to him that it could have been a second home and when she'd at last chosen to emerge, suffering had changed her irrevocably.

Some people didn't like the change, but he tended to consider it a deepening rather than a diminishment. Her wit had taken a wry and sardonic turn. She had become more sombre, more introspective and she had little patience for fools, where once she'd laughed along with them. There were changes in her appearance too, as she lost the slight roundness in her cheeks, the first loveliness of youth becoming another kind of beauty entirely, something striking and feral. She had wary eyes now and a hunted gaze, the face of someone who had survived.

It should have saddened him to see these changes in her and in some respects, it did, but if he was being entirely honest with himself, there was something rather thrilling in it too. When they were alone together in her study, it took few words for them to understand each other. There was a comfort in that, like standing before one's reflection in a mirror, instinctively knowing every thought, every gesture.

His sister, Varania, appeared unexpectedly in the midst of this. Fenris had located the rooming house where she lived in Minrathous, sending a few letters and what coin he could spare, but he hadn't anticipated such a quick response, never mind the news that she'd boarded a ship to Kirkwall and was coming to see him. He'd experienced a surge of unwonted hopefulness at that, although he did not wish to flaunt too much of this before Marian. She had lost so much and what she had gained seemed to mean little to her – titles, medallions, status - a lot of names and cold metal. She needed more and deserved it, but he wasn't yet in a place where he could offer it to her. He was improving, though, and...he had hopes, ideas of what might come to pass, if he could stop being a fugitive and start living as a free man. He felt that day was getting closer.

Fenris wanted Marian nearby when he found his past, perhaps because he had quietly come to regard her as my future, although they'd said nothing on the subject for three years, although other men, more suitable men, perhaps, had tried to court her and as Champion, she did not lack for admirers.

"It would mean a great deal to me if you would come," he told her.

"You don't think I'll get in the way? She wants to visit you, not me."

"I'd like her to meet you. When I came to Kirkwall, you were my first...friend. If she is to stay here, she will have need of friends too."

Friend. It was word that people bandied about too easily and that made it feel inadequate to his purposes. Perhaps it was the wrong word altogether, but it was the one they had agreed upon. It would have to serve, even if it didn't encompass everything he felt about her - how he would touch her and desire would briefly overpower his reason, how she had an uncanny knack for appearing in his thoughts just before he fell asleep and how sometimes she'd wriggle her way into his dreams too and he'd wake up, ashamed to find himself hugging the blankets to his chest.

It was a gift that she'd agreed to accompany him. As they walked towards the Hanged Man, Fenris hung back a little, darting glancing at her, drawing courage from her stride and the determined look in her eyes. She didn't ask him if he was alright but he could tell that she was worried about him and she took pains to clear minor obstacles out of his path and let him focus on dealing with the imminent reunion with his sister.

He recognized Varania from the first – the red hair, the thin frame, the narrow face that was a softened version of his own. She hunched over at the table, her elbows planted on the wood surface, still looking like a slave, although she was now a tailor's apprentice. Memories flashed into his mind – the damp stones of the courtyard, their mother's voice calling them in from their games, calling _his_ name.

_Leto._ A popular name for Tevinter slaves, but certainly not the one he would have given himself. It meant 'summer'. It was a name that masters reserved for the slaves who looked cheerful in their bondage.

He'd experienced a sudden rush of affection for Varania until she looked up and he saw the dullness behind her eyes.

"Fenris, we need to get out of here," Marian said.

Danarius descended the stairs from the tavern's second floor, a smug look spreading across on his wizened, grey-bearded face. "Ah, my little Fenris. Predictable as always."

Betrayal. Fenris didn't know whom he despised more: Danarius for spinning this web or himself, for being fool enough to get caught in it.

Varania moved her dark-painted lips like a puppet. "I'm sorry it came to this, Leto."

"You lead him here."

"Now, now, Fenris, don't blame your sister," Danarius chided. "She's only doing what any good Imperial citizen should."

"I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius, but I won't let you kill me to get them."

The magister chortled at this. "How little you know, my pet. And this is your new mistress, then? The Champion of Kirkwall? Quite lovely." He looked Marian up and down as if he had the right to appraise her and assign her a price.

Fenris clenched his fists at his sides, imagining how gratifying it would feel to kill him. Nothing belonged to a slave. Not one's body, caged, shackled, beaten, used as carelessly as any object or piece of furniture. Not one's mind, for a slave is not allowed to learn anything beyond the duties his master assigns him. Certainly not one's heart, which could be ripped away at any moment. As a slave, he'd known that any longing he'd experienced was a scourge he'd put into his master's hands, something that Danarius would use to whip him within an inch of his life.

Marian glared at Danarius, giving a defiant lift of her chin. "Fenris doesn't belong to anyone."

"Do I detect a note of jealousy? It's not surprising. The lad is rather...skilled, isn't he?"

Fenris wasn't sure what the insinuations meant, if they were just innuendo or whether Danarius or Hadriana had done something to him, in his former life, a horror that he could not recall. He was reminded of how Isabella used to parrot back those depraved rumours about Tevinter slaves and a sense of doubt gnawed at the pit of his gut. What had he let them do to him? Did he want to remember? Or was this another of their tricks, a way to unnerve him and poison the thoughts of my allies?

"Shut your mouth, Danarius."

"The word is 'Master'," Danarius purred, signalling to his hirelings. They rushed towards them, swords in hand and screams rang up from along the Hanged Man's bar. That'd surprised Fenris, almost made him smile. By now, he would've thought the clientele would be used to a little blood on the floor.

At the first, the conflict had seemed simple enough, underwhelming. He knocked down the nearest mercenary with one swipe of his sword, gutting him while he lay prone on the ground, before going after the shades Danarius had summoned. The magister himself had fled back up the stairs, to cast his spells from afar, but Fenris assured himself that it wouldn't be long until Danarius received what was coming to him. The tide of battle had seemed to be turning in Fenris' favour.

That was until another gang of slavers had come pouring through the doors, flanking them. Fenris saw the glass vials glistening as they spun through the air. They cracked against the floor, blue fumes rising as the sedative seeped out, and his movements became shaky, his mind muddled with the potion's paralytic effects. He saw a blade pierce Marian's shoulder and another enter her back, but she was too far away and he was helpless to intervene.

His mouth opened, forming her name, but he had no voice left to call out. His knees buckled beneath him and his face hit the floor, his cheekbone smashing against hard wood, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

"The elf is my property," he heard Danarius say. "Keep the woman alive, if you can. With her abilities, she might still be useful."

"She's full of blood, anyway." A female voice. Varania's? Was his sister truly capable of saying such a thing?

He passed out before he had time to determine.

Fenris regained consciousness in total darkness, only discovering that he was in a cage when his head struck the steel bars. From the dankness of the air, the smell of rich earth, the sound of water dripping against stone, he guessed that he must be in one of the many slaver caverns along the Wounded Coast.

He remembered Marian and he wondered if she might be here too, somewhere in the darkness. She'd taken grave wounds, but he couldn't believe that she was dead, not yet, not after all she had survived. Perhaps he was being naive, altogether too hopeful, but he managed to rasp out her name.

"Marian?"

There was no answer, just the trickle of water against the cavern floor.

"Marian. Answer me."

Nothing. He swore under his breath, pacing across the length of the cage, trying to determine its dimensions.

The lyrium on his skin started to glow, as it did sometimes when he was agitated, and the light was useful in making out his surroundings. He saw that he was in a narrow dead-end chamber full of empty cages.

Fenris lashed out against the bars of his cage, cursing again as his knuckles struck steel. It was so easy to phase through soft flesh, but metal...that would take time and concentration, if he could manage it at all.

He found the lock and the hinged door, focussing his strength, his fingers turning a ghostly, insubstantial blue. He began to work, his markings aching as he worked to harness every ounce of their power.

Fenris remembered hearing hunters tell of how wolves escaped steel traps by gnawing off their own legs. He would prefer to avoid such methods and keep all his limbs intact, the better to kill Danarius, but if he had to take such extreme measures, then so be it. If there was a way to break free, if there was a way to help himself or save Marian from whatever fate Danarius might be reserving for her, he would find it.

* * *

Her eyes flicked open and she stared up at shadows swimming across the cavern ceiling.

Marian lay on a stone table, naked except for the iron cuffs around her wrists and ankles. It was the same kind of table Hadriana had used when she'd slaughtered Orana's father and indeed, the whole room had a familiar look to it, but Marian doubted she was in the same place. Tevinter slaver caverns all looked alike: stone plinths for rituals, slave cages hanging from hooks on the ceiling, diabolical traps, the occasional oubliette. Perhaps they all shared the same interior decorator.

It occurred to her that Danarius might be planning to bleed her, but then she saw the gauze dressing on the wound on her shoulder and had to revise her opinion. If he was planning on using her for a rite of blood magic, surely he wouldn't have bothered to staunch the wound.

There was a pattern of interlocking runes painted over her arms and chest in purple ink, lines that etched over her breasts, traced along her ribs and snaked downward over her stomach. When she managed to crane her neck forward, she saw that the design extended along her legs too, even over the tops of her feet. Very...artistic.

Very creepy. She shuddered to think what else the bastard might have done to her while she was unconscious. It was probably best not to ponder it too deeply. She had more important things to consider, like how to free herself, how to get back her armour and her sword, how to track down Fenris before they messed with his head again or worse.

A door opened from across the room and a cold breeze drifted in, sending goosebumps prickling over her bare flesh. It was not Danarius who entered, but Varania, dressed in the pale blue robes of an apprentice mage. A gold amulet of the Tevinter Chantry glistened around her neck.

"Where's Fenris?" Marian demanded.

"Leto? Don't worry yourself. He's safe."

Marian glared at the elven woman, wondering how Fenris could be related to such a conniving little snake. It might be that she wasn't even his sister at all. Maybe she was just a deceitful elf who'd grown up in the same slavers' yard, but the expression on Fenris' face when he'd seen her caused Marian to doubt that. There was little resemblance between them except for the gauntness of their cheeks and the lithe, yet wiry build that all elves seemed to have in common.

Their colouring was completely different. Before Danarius had put the lyrium under Fenris' skin, she imagined he must have had brown or black hair to match the darkness of his brows. His complexion seemed to bear this out – even in the middle of a Kirkwall winter, he retained the hint of a tan. By contrast, Varania's hair was an unnatural shade of red, dyed, perhaps, and her skin was drained of all colour, not just pale, but waxy and almost corpse-like.

"Your own brother and you betrayed him."

"Half-brother," Varania corrected. "His father was a slave. My father was a magister."

"I see you take after your father then."

"I do. Thank you."

Marian's upper lip curled back in disgust. "That wasn't a compliment."

Varania responded with a cruel snicker, the most mirthful sound she was probably capable of. "You've obviously never been to Minrathous."

"I've heard more than enough about it from Fenris."

She refused to say Leto. Varania seemed set on using that name, but Marian knew Fenris, only Fenris. He was the one who'd fought with her all these years, who'd brooded and argued and couldn't tolerate mages, who'd settled for terrible jobs at the Mercenaries Guild and gambled away too much of his money. He was the one who'd become her friend and briefly, her lover, the man whom she'd come to love, in her way, against the expectations of her rank and birth, and all her better judgement. Leto...those were just two random syllables plucked from the air. They meant nothing to her, whatever significance they might hold for Varania.

"Indeed? Leto told you about it," Varania sneered. "Was that before or after he fucked you?"

Marian frowned, twisting in the iron restraints and wishing that she could at least cross her legs together. She would have appreciated a bedsheet or something for cover, but Varania and Danarius clearly didn't care about providing for their test subjects' modesty.

"That's quite an assumption. Is my relationship to your half-brother really any of your business now that you've sold us both to Danarius?"

"Oh, don't look so shocked," Varania said. "It's a very simple deduction. You're Leto's type. And you wouldn't have fought for him if he hadn't made himself valuable."

"I_ care_ about him. He's my _friend_. He didn't have to 'make himself valuable'."

Varania looked amused at her protestations. "No need to get indignant. I'm sure he enjoyed sitting in the lap of luxury and warming the bed of his pretty mistress. Much nicer than the Alienage in Minrathous. Leto's always been the lucky one. It's too bad he won't be able to cherish the memories."

The door swung open behind her and Varania spun around, cringing into a curtsey as Danarius swept into the room. Her fawning was enough to make Marian sick.

"I've made all the preparations you requested, Master Danarius."

"So I see."

Marian flinched, shuddering as Danarius jabbed a finger against one of the lines of ink painted across her stomach. His fingertip came back purple.

"Sloppy work. It still hasn't dried yet."

Varania's mouth gaped open, working as she searched for an excuse or some kind of rejoinder.

Danarius rolled his eyes, flicking back the cape of his robe. "Pah. Your incompetence is showing. Already I begin to regret my charity in allowing you to become my apprentice."

"Actually, I think the two of you deserve each other," Marian interjected. "A traitorous bitch and an arrogant sadist. One couldn't ask for a better match."

Danarius gave an ominous chuckle, rubbing his hand over his creepy-looking beard. He seemed to be strangely proud of that wiry grey growth on his jaw-line. Perhaps, in Tevinter, it was considered stylish to parade about looking like some unspeakable pervert.

"Impudent," he said. "We'll see how long that lasts."

"You know, when Fenris spoke of you, Danarius, I always imagined someone less...blatantly pathetic," Marian noted. "And I never figured you would have such dreadful facial hair. Your chin bears an uncanny resemblance to an old woman's crotch."

"That's funny. You didn't live up to my expectations either, Champion. I thought you'd be wiser - and yet you stumbled into such an obvious trap."

"Tell me, do you keep that goatee because you think it makes you look younger? I wonder why a connection to the Fade always gives people such atrocious fashion sense."

Danarius lathered up his hands with soap and washed them in a nearby basin. "I'm surprised you aren't more concerned about the markings I'll be putting into your skin. Surely my dear Fenris has informed you that the procedure has certain...painful complications?"

Fenris never spoke about the pain, but she knew it had been excruciating and that while he'd grown use to the lyrium wedged like splinters under his skin, it still ached on occasion, a throbbing agony that he had to grind his way through. There were days when she'd see his mouth twist into a grimace and she'd known that he was suffering and that it would be best to tread lightly around him, to show him every consideration she could.

"Yes, I was a little curious about that," she said. "Of course, it isn't all that uncommon to pass out at the Hanged Man and wake up stark naked in a cave with crude drawings all over one's body. Mind you, I'd hoped that when it happened to me, I'd regain consciousness next to someone better-looking. No offence, Danarius, but you're rather old and pruney. And blood magic is so unattractive."

Danarius didn't look precisely pleased at this mockery, but all in all, he was rather good at concealing his irritation. "I wonder if you'll still be jesting once I've finished with you. I certainly hope so."

"Why? Fenris wasn't funny enough for you? You want a do-over?"

"No. Once I wipe his memory again, my little Fenris will suit me perfectly. However, I intend to make a present of you and I think the Black Divine might enjoy a pet with a sense of humour." He paused, smiling as he contemplated his work. "Of course, I have made some adjustments to my formula since my last experiment with Fenris. It will be interesting to test them out on a new body. As I hear it, women are better at enduring pain. We shall see if that's true."

He took out a dagger and began to sharpen it against a whetstone. "Hmm. What do you think we should call her, Varania? 'Marian Hawke' will hardly be suitable."

"'Aquila', perhaps? Staying with the bird of prey theme..."

From her studies of Tevinter, Marian knew this meant 'eagle'.

"Witty," she said, smirking at Varania. "No one's ever made a pun about my last name before. Look at that, Danarius. Your new apprentice isn't such a whiny lack-wit after all."

Danarius set aside the whetstone and nodded to Varania. "Get the lyrium and be quick about it. I'll be making the first incisions and I'll require assistance."

Varania scuttled out the door like a good little apprentice. If Marian had had use of her arms, she would have flung one of her throwing knives to speed the traitor's exit.

Danarius circled around to the end of the table, placing a hand on her right foot. "You'll want to stay still, Champion. The markings will turn out better that way. If you thrash around, you'll ruin my work and you won't get to be as pretty as Fenris. And he is lovely, isn't he? My best work."

Dear Maker, Marian hated it when he said Fenris' name, especially when he said 'my little Fenris' in that drippy, knowing voice, a smarmy smile slithering its way across his lips. He and Varania seemed to think that making lewd insinuations about Fenris would make her less willing to defend him, but if so, they were mistaken. Marian didn't care what they implied about his slave days or what he might have been coerced into doing at the point of a sword. She'd known Fenris as a free man and that was who he'd always be to her, not a pawn of the magisters, not a mere body who'd been forced to obey the whims of Danarius, Hadriana and their twisted compatriots. Whatever they'd done to him, it was a reflection of their own corruption, not his. Fenris might think that magic had spoiled everything, even himself, but she would never believe that, not of the man she knew and loved.

Danarius drew the blade downward, slicing into the top of Marian's foot and cutting her big toe, before working lower, following the outline of the delicate bones beneath.

Marian squeezed her eyes shut, biting down on her lips, struggling not to cry out as the blood trickled down over her heels and dripped onto the floor.

She wouldn't scream. Not yet. She'd save her voice for when the real pain began.


	11. A Reckoning

Phasing his body through a steel cage had proven a challenge. Fenris had scrapes, bruises and a dislocated wrist to prove it.

By contrast, phasing his hand through a slaver's chest was relatively easy and much, much more satisfying. He squelched the man's heart in his fist, blood running through his fingers, a sensation that he had come to associate with freedom.

And vengeance. How he'd savour the taste of that.

Fenris searched the corpse for what armour and weapons he could find, pulling the slaver's chain helm over his head to conceal his features, which were...distinctive to say the least. The ploy wouldn't fool many people close-up, as his markings were still visible on his hands and his feet, but from a distance, in low lighting, he might be able to pass as one of the ragtag mercenaries.

The dead man had carried a wooden shield and short sword, useful enough for wanton slaughter, although the equipment wouldn't have been Fenris' first selection. He'd fought with shields in the past and quite successfully, but the greatsword with its two-handed grip, made best use of his speed and unusual strength. In most situations, he'd never had to worry about blocking the attacks of enemies – one swing of his blade and they were on the ground, bleeding. A second swing and they were dead.

He armed himself, tying the shield to his damaged wrist. He already looked forward to the time when he could regain his own armour and his gilded Sword of Mercy. Danarius had likely confiscated the sword for his collection and if he were presented with the opportunity, Fenris would dearly love to give the magister the weapon he so coveted – right through his lying throat.

Fenris dragged the corpse out of the main tunnel, shoving it into a narrow crevice, before he resumed skulking through the low tunnel, watching for more mercenary guards or shades that Danarius might have summoned to guard the cavern.

Hearing voices from around the corner, he drew to an abrupt halt and cocked his head to the side, listening, trying to make sense of their words. The men spoke mostly in Tevinter, but it was a brutish dialect of raiders passing through Minrathous, the original language mixed with scraps of Rivaini and Antivan. Their grammar was atrocious. Fenris couldn't understand every word of the conversation but what he caught of it was...interesting.

"This old man Danarius, when he pay us?"

"Soon, said he. He has gold or he not able to buy lyrium and he spend on lots of lyrium."

"When we see this gold? My friend, he tell me Kirkwall has a good whorehouse. Pricey, but you got the coin, the girls there, they do anything."

"You can try and ask the boss, but don't be stupid about it. Talk to Danarius and you wind up dead. The old man working now and he don't want to be distracted."

"He got the prisoner lady in there? Down the hall? If he gonna take so long to pay us, he should at least pass her around a bit. I need to fuck something soon. You don't use it, you lose it, my friend."

Fenris scowled, raising his newfound sword, testing its weight in his hand. He wasn't going to feel any regrets over these two.

He strode around the corner and the two men reeled around, their hands going to their weapons. The burlier man was closest to him and the less prepared of the pair. He hadn't even drawn his blade before Fenris chopped off his hand at the wrist. The man's other hand flailed for his sword and he tried to back away, lifting his bleeding stump over his chest, but Fenris would have none of it. He launched himself at the mercenary, stomping him to the ground with a well-timed kick before skewering him with his sword.

The other man had retreated to a stone ledge a few feet away and had begun pelting Fenris with bolts from his crossbow, shouting for reinforcements.

Fenris heaved a sigh, annoyed at having to use his shield arm to block the steady barrage. He rushed forward, ducking a particularly well-aimed bolt that threatened to nail him between the eyes and struck against the bowman's legs with his shield.

The bowman stumbled, wavering on his perch, his bolt flying wide and Fenris hit him with his sword this time, slashing through his light leather cuirass. His opponent hit the floor, splashing into a shallow pool and dropping his crossbow, hands grasping at his punctured gut.

Fenris picked up the man's crossbow and snapped it over his knee, dropping the wood pieces to the ground.

"Where is she?" He spoke in Tevinter, pressing the point of his sword to the man's adam's apple.

"She? Who you want? I help you."

He leaned forward, his mouth twisting into a derisive snarl. "The woman Danarius wasn't generous enough to 'share'."

"If I tell you, what do I get?"

"Your life. Such as it is."

That made the fool more talkative. "She's in eastern room, off main hall. He not letting anyone go in there but elf woman."

"And how do I get to this main hall?"

"Go that way." The man nodded towards a winding corridor to the right.

"Thank you." Fenris lifted his sword and stabbed the man in groin.

The bowman's eyes glazed over, his face contorting in what could only be agony. Fenris doubted he'd be fucking anything in the near future, not unless he was going to grow a new pair of balls.

"Wha? You promise..."

Fenris shrugged. "I promised you your life. I'm sure you'll have a long and happy one as a eunuch."

More likely the fellow would bleed to death or die of an infection from his stomach wound, but Fenris hardly felt that was a mark against his honour. After all, when he'd walked away, the man was still breathing – indeed, wailing in a most unseemly fashion. He considered cutting the fool's tongue out too, but that seemed too time-consuming and he was anxious to find Marian. It was good to know that she'd survived, but the fact that Danarius was giving her his undivided personal attention was not a reassuring sign. Fenris knew better than almost anyone else living what the man was capable of, especially against someone who'd interfered with his 'property'.

He followed the winding corridor, dispensing with the shades that Danarius had sent to patrol the path. Without his greatsword, it took more work to down them and he found himself irritated at how he had to bob and weave to avoid their grasping hands. At last, he reached a round central chamber with a high vault ceiling, the place that the bowman seemed to have been referring to when he spoke of a 'main hall'.

As Fenris walked toward the eastern chamber, he noted a row of cages containing dozens of slaves, mostly women and children. Many of them looked weak and malnourished and he didn't think they'd be able to get far, especially if pursued by armed men. It was strange to see a small elven boy draw away trembling from his gaze, but then he remembered the slaver helm that hid his face. They thought that he was one of their captors and anticipated that he might do them harm. The realization was like a knot in his stomach and he swore he'd come back to free them later, if he still lived and Danarius was dead.

Peering through the small eyeslit in his helm, Fenris saw Varania step out of the room, locking the door behind her. It was peculiar and unnerving to see his half-sister dressed in the same sort of apprentice robes Hadriana had once worn. Indeed, the garments appeared a bit long and loose on her, as if they'd been inherited from the dead woman. Fenris was hardly surprised. Danarius was a frugal man when it came to trivialities, like the attire and food of his underlings. This was how he financed his numerous 'experiments'.

Varania had barely gotten two steps away from the door, when Fenris grabbed her, clamping a clawed hand over her mouth and pressing the edge of his sword to her throat.

"Walk with me, sister."

She was wise enough to comply. Whatever else one might say about Varania, she was clever enough to play at obedience when it was in her best interests. He marched her back towards the door.

"Open it," he whispered. "There is nothing amiss and your master has nothing to fear. If you should make him think otherwise, I assure you that you will meet a well-deserved death."

"I am your sister, Leto. I only did what I had to..."

"My _half_-sister," he noted wryly. "As I recall, you were sired by a magister. Now open that door."

Varania grudgingly extracted a gold key from her pocket and inserted it into the lock. She twisted it around and the door clicked open.

Fenris drew back a little, prodding her with the flat of his sword. She was reluctant, but she slowly pushed at the door.

As the door creaked open, he heard Danarius' gloating voice: "...he is lovely, isn't he? My best work..."

The magister seemed to notice that Varania had unlocked the door and his tone became harsh and condescending. "What? I told you to bring the lyrium. What part of that did you not understand?" He sighed. "It's at moments like these when I begin to miss _Hadriana_. May she rot in peace."

Fenris gave Varania a hard shove through the door and barrelled into the room, his sword upraised before him.

She stumbled forward and nearly collided with Danarius, who stood before a stone table, wiping a bloody dagger against the butcher's apron that covered his ornate purple robes.

Danarius scowled as Varania teetered against him, gripping the folds of his robe in an effort to regain her balance. "Ugh. Filthy harridan." He stabbed her in the arm and pushed her out of his way, drawing his demonic staff into an outstretched hand.

Fenris darted a glance at Marian, his jaw tightening in anger at the cruelties Danarius had imposed upon her. She lay stretched out on the table, naked except for the irons holding her to the cold stone. A complex pattern of purple runes had been mapped over her skin, markings that recalled his own. Danarius had carved into her right foot with his dagger and blood seeped from the wounds, a startling red against the white marble of her skin. Marian had squeezed her eyes shut and seemed to be seeking a refuge in her mind, to ignore the knife slicing through her flesh and Danarius' smug sermonizing, but when Varania cried out, her eyes bolted open. She saw him and a hopeful expression crossed her face.

"Fenris."

Her eyes were wet with tears and yet there was relief in her voice and even gratitude.

Fenris couldn't understand why. Marian should've hated him for having dragged her into this horror. It was his fault that she was bound to that table, the skin on her foot sliced to ribbons, blood trickling over her heels and pooling on the stone. Danarius would never have thought to touch her if he hadn't come into her life, bringing Tevinter slavers, power-mad magisters and all the rest of his unfortunate history along with him.

Danarius chuckled. "Well, at least someone is happy to see you. I should have anticipated that you might perform one of your clever tricks, my sweet boy. Such a little escape artist, you are. Still phasing through cage bars is a bit extreme, even for you, my dear. Wouldn't it just be better to give in now and rest?"

Fenris closed the door behind him, turning the lock. "Perhaps when I've finished killing you."

Danarius lifted his staff, casting a glyph of protection on the floor before him and creating a dome of blue light to shield his aged frame. "Kill...me? But why? I've always thought of myself as your benefactor, Fenris. Didn't we have a pleasant life together once, you and I? You always seemed to be so comfortable with your lot back in those days."

Every word that came out of Danarius' lips was a lie or an attempt at manipulation, a way to turn white into black, good into evil, as surely as he transformed mundane objects with his wicked enchantments. Fenris despised him and all that he stood for – and yet, somehow, the old man was still powerful and persuasive, capable of twisting everything around, remaking the world in his own image. He possessed that terrible hubris of the magisters, of all mages who sought to impose their mad philosophy and hateful delusions upon those weaker than themselves.

"I was a slave. You destroyed my mind. You destroyed...everything."

Danarius shook his head sorrowfully, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "Such an affectionate boy, you were. I'm sad to see that time and this cruel world have hardened you."

His shaggy grey brows lifted and he frowned with pretended concern. Fenris knew it was simply for show and yet it affected some secret place in himself where he was still just a boy, cold, half-starved and alone, hoping for a scrap of food, a kindly glance, an encouraging word.

"You know, you don't have to suffer like this, Fenris. Kirkwall is such a dreadful place. If you'd like, I could take all the distressing feelings away. Make you clean and pure and peaceful again and you'd never have to remember any of this...unpleasantness you got yourself into with this foolish rebellion. Why, if you surrender, I'll even let this charming young lady walk free. Doesn't that sound like a lovely compromise, my pet?"

Fenris hesitated, looking at Marian, watching wide-eyed as the blood drained from her wounds. She looked faint with pain and fatigue and, without treatment, he doubted she'd be able to maintain consciousness much longer. "You'd release her? And the slaves outside?"

"Certainly. A trade. Most advantageous one for you, I might add, considering you are already my property, dear boy."

Marian's arms clattered against her restraints. Her voice was thin and her breathing shallow, but it was evident that she was angry and planned to fight this, tooth and nail, every step of the way. "No. Damn it, Fenris. Don't listen to him. Don't even think about it."

And yet he was thinking about it, despite her outrage. And it seemed almost reasonable. Without his greatsword or his armour, Fenris was unsure if he could defeat Danarius in single combat. He did not fear his own death, but if he failed, Marian would surely suffer unspeakable things. If he agreed to yield, Danarius would release her. He might even be able to heal her, removing the scars from her skin. Fenris knew she might despise him for his weakness, his surrender, but at least she'd be able to go back to Kirkwall, alive and free, safe from the magisters' experiments. He...he'd spent years resisting Danarius, putting others at risk for a freedom he didn't even know to how to enjoy. He'd aspired to be like one of the Fog Warriors he'd met in the jungles of Seheron and yet, after all this time, he still had a slave's mind and slave's instincts. All he seemed capable of doing was hurting her, even when he intended gentleness. Perhaps, if he gave in, the magisters would take away this terrible yearning to be what he couldn't become, to have what he couldn't possess and he would be content just to serve.

Yet, even as this thought occurred to him, Fenris knew that if Danarius removed all this 'unpleasantness', all the doubts that plagued him, he'd lose every memory he ever had of being free. He wouldn't remember what it was like to sit in the Chantry courtyard on a summer day and listen to the birds singing or walk along the coast, refreshed by the sea air misting his face. He'd forget what it was like to win a hand of Wicked Grace or how good it'd felt the first time he'd finished reading an entire book. He wouldn't remember what it was like to drink wine and share tales with a beautiful woman or how it'd been to kiss her, to strip back her armour and her clothes and stroke his rough hands over the smoothness of her skin. He wanted to stow all of that away in his mind. He wanted all of those things in his future, too.

He shook his head, his mind made up. "I'm not your slave, Danarius. Never again."

"And yet I will always be your Master."

Danarius lifted his staff and a wave of flames rippled up from the floor, heat roiling in the dank cavern air.

Fenris raised his shield to block the inferno, aware that the fire had already begun to lick and char the varnished wood. Tongues of flame danced around him, scorching across his cheeks as he rushed forward, slashing at Danarius' protective barrier with his borrowed sword.

"Varania, listen to me," he heard Marian say. "It's clear Danarius doesn't want you as his apprentice. All he wanted was Fenris and as soon as he gets him, he'll find a way to be rid of you. Set me free and I can help you."

Fenris was too busy fending off Danarius' attacks to look at Varania, but as far as he could tell, she was still cowering on the floor, trying to staunch the wound on her arm where Danarius had stabbed her.

"How could you help me?" she cried. "You hate me. You're no better than him, but Danarius will at least teach me magic."

Marian's laugh was sharp and disdainful. "Don't be a fool. He won't teach you anything if he murders you."

"You have the right idea, Varania," Danarius said. "All magisters have to start somewhere. It takes years of struggle even to become an apprentice. If Fenris here could have been a mage, he would have savoured the power."

"Only the power to be rid of you," Fenris retorted.

He tossed the burning shield at Danarius, managing to break his concentration enough to disturb his barrier. Gripping his sword with both hands, he swung it at the magister.

Danarius bolted back, just escaping the edge of Fenris' blade. He darted away, his mana clearly waning. Swiping the vat of lyrium from the marble countertop, he started to unscrew the lid, eager to replenish his energy.

Fenris lunged forward, knocking the lyrium away with another slash of his sword. The pale blue substance spilled on the floor and Varania scurried over, struggling to scoop the stuff back into the jar with her gloved hands.

Fenris tried to kick her out of his way and she distracted him just enough that, with the last of his power, Danarius was able to stop his blade in mid-air.

The sword trembled between them a moment, the strength of Fenris' arm contending with the magister's desperate magic, before it went spinning across the room. The blade clattered against the stone floor and Varania scurried away, hugging the jar to her chest.

Deprived of his weapon, Fenris pounced upon Danarius, dragging him to the floor and seizing him by the gullet.

The magister's mouth gaped open as if he intended to say something, to offer up his own eulogy, but Fenris spoke before Danarius could summon up the words.

"You are no longer my Master."

He slammed his fist into Danarius' head, feeling his neck jerk back and his brain bash against the inside of his skull. This alone should have been enough to kill him or, at the very least, render him catatonic, but it was not enough to sate Fenris' wrath. This man had stolen decades of his life, had marked and mutilated his body, had ravaged his mind and blackened his heart, so that only torment had felt like reality. And when it seemed that mages could do nothing more to ruin Fenris' life, the wicked old satyr had gone after the one person who'd made him feel there might still be hope and beauty left in the world. He pummelled Danarius again and again, the magister's head hitting the ground like a rotten melon, blood spattering the sides of the marble countertop.

After what seemed like ages, but had only been a few savage moments, Fenris stood up, wiping the gore from his face. From the look in Varania's eyes, he could tell that he was a dreadful spectacle but her revulsion and the knowledge that she thought him a monster only encouraged him. There was just one thought in his mind, one impulse – to eradicate every trace of his past, to obliterate every part of this betrayal and horrors it had wrought against everything he'd cherished.

Varania scuttled back towards the door, fumbling in her panic to unlock it.

Fenris was disgusted by the terror in her eyes. If she had walked to her death bravely, unrepentantly wicked to the last, he might, at least, have respected her but she still clung to hope that the word 'sister' would save her.

"I had no choice, Leto."

No choice? She was a free woman. What had possessed her but her own weakness?

"Stop calling me that." Leto. The name of a dead child, one who'd played happily in courtyard, never suspecting that he was a slave and that his life meant nothing.

Varania's breathing quickened, a vein pulsing in her stringy neck. She knew she was cornered. The resemblance Fenris first noted between them now appeared like a caricature, a mockery of heredity. Such folly, such unbelievable frailty. He wondered if he would see her fearful, cringing expression the next time he happened upon a mirror. Thankfully, an overwhelming majority of the mirrors in the mansion were no longer intact.

"He was going to make me his apprentice," she said. Her tone was regretful and she looked down at Danarius' body, as if she would gladly restore it to life. "I would have been a magister."

"You sold out your own brother to become a magister?" It shouldn't have surprised him. The only thing she'd learned from suffering was how to inflict it on others. In that respect, Tevinter slaves received an excellent education.

"You have no idea what we went through. What I've had to do since Mother died. This was my only chance."

More snivelling and shuffling off the blame to her circumstances. Slave talk. It wearied Fenris to listen to it. Grasping her shoulder, he raised his fist, planning to crush her heart, quick and cruelly efficient. "And now you have no chance at all."

"Wait. Don't kill her." Marian's voice was shrill, more desperate than he'd ever heard it. If she'd been calmer, he might have pretended not to heed her until it was too late. As it was, she shocked him just enough to stay his hand.

Fenris sneered at Varania, his fist still poised over her chest. The veins of lyrium running through his hand cast pale blue light upon her pale robe.

"Why not?" he said. "What is she to me? Just another tool of the magisters."

Marian's voice sounded sad and weary, as if tacitly acknowledging Varania for the cruel disappointment she was. "This is your family, Fenris."

Family. That meant little to him, but to Marian – it was everything she had lost since she'd left Lothering. That was her grief, not his, but he understood that if he wilfully severed this last connection to a family he could hardly remember, she would perceive it as a slap in the face, the most unforgivable brutality. He didn't mind appearing a monster in Varania's eyes, but to become that before Marian was more troubling.

Later, he might have told a fair-sounding lie and said that he spared his sister out of mercy, but Fenris was no panderer of words like Varric and the story of his life was not some noble tale. There was great irony in the fact that he wielded a Blade of Mercy, since he was not naturally inclined to the quality.

No, he did not let Varania live out of compassion nor did he think her worthy of his sympathy. His reasons were not nearly so noble. If he spared his sister, he did it hoping, that if he put on a show of forgiving her, Marian might forgive him for the years of distance and uncertainty, for all the time they had lost while he'd mourned his vanished past.

He gave Varania a shake, rattling the bird-bones of her brittle body, before loosening his grip on her, stepping back to keep himself out of temptation's path. "Get out."

Varania blinked, processing this reprieve, and turned, stoop-shouldered, towards the door, finally managing to prise open the lock.

She paused, looking out at her freedom, perhaps envisaging the life she would return to in Minrathous. In her hesitation, the way her body recoiled from it, knees buckling like a puppet on cut strings, Fenris could tell it wasn't a pleasant sight.

"You said you didn't ask for this, but that's not true," she said. "You wanted it. You competed for it. When you won, you used the boon to have Mother and I freed."

It could have been a falsehood. She had plenty of reason to wound him with her words. He wanted it to be a lie more than anything else, but when she said it, he knew it was the truth. The memories came streaming in, cold water knifing his flesh:

_At the end of the tournament, Leto stands over the last body, pulling his sword from the back of the corpse's neck. He coolly wipes off the blade with the bottom of his homespun shirt and turns back towards Master Danarius. _

_The master claps his hands together, a hollow sound. "Fine work. Very good." _

_He glances at Hadriana, who mimics his show of approval. "What do you think, my dear? Hungry for power, isn't he? Quite the little wolf."_

_She offers her teacher a sycophant's smile. "I expect he'll do nicely." When her smile turns to Leto, it becomes distinctly more predatory, bared fangs and narrowed eyes. _

"_Then we have a champion at last." Danarius' gaze zeros in on him and Leto finds something uncomfortable about his scrutiny, something that prickles against the back of his neck. "Time for the victor to collect his prize. What boon do you ask of us?"_

_His throat is parched from thirst and his voice is just a rasp. "My mother and my sister are to be freed."_

_Danarius chuckles indulgently. "Is that all? Very well." _

_He orders his men to bring out the slaves in question and after some confusion (all the knife-ears look alike, apparently, and there are so many of them) Leto's mother and his half-sister are hauled out of the crowd. The guards remove the shackles from their wrists and ankles. Hadriana has fetched the appropriate documents of manumission from Danarius' study and his seal. _

_Danarius shows Leto the papers, smiling. "See? Look at them."_

_Leto gazes at his mother and his sister instead, offering them a last goodbye, one that he cannot speak aloud for he knows Hadriana will mock him. They look frightened and small, as if they are already receding into his past. _

"_Look at them, fool!" Hadriana cries, tapping the documents. _

_Danarius pets her head. "Ah, calm down, my girl. You must not let a slave infuriate you so. If he doesn't look at the papers, it's because he's too stupid to read, poor creature."_

_Leto ignores them, his gaze still intent upon the two little figures walking out of the courtyard. The fence opens before them and they walk through it, becoming two black lines against the road, then a pair of specks against the horizon. Finally, they disappear from sight altogether. _

_Danarius motions to him. "Come now, my champion. Come and receive the reward that has been awaiting you."_

_They march him down to the basement, where Danarius keeps his laboratory. Once there, he bids to Leto strip, while Hadriana watches, smothering a giggle in her hand. _

"_A fine Champion, indeed," she says. _

_Leto loathes her and would like to lash out at her, blackening one of her cold, cat-like eyes, but he has no recourse but to endure her scrutiny. She is the master's assistant and he cannot strike her or they will cut off his hands._

_At their insistence, he sprawls out on the cold metal table and awaits their instructions, listening as Danarius whets a blade. _

"_Such a fine flesh." His voice is an odious caress. "I shall strive to be...decorative." _

_Leto's skin crawls. He stares at the ceiling, focussing on the rise and collapse of his ribs with each breath._

"_Don't worry." Danarius says. "It will hurt but a little."_

_The best lie he ever told._

Fenris looked at the back of Varania's head, reminded of the last time she walked away. She was smaller then, but little else has changed.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Her voice held nothing but contempt, even after he'd spared her. He wondered if letting her live in misery, in self-hatred, yet blaming the rest of the world for her sorrows, wasn't a crueller punishment.

"Freedom was no boon," she murmured. "I look on you now and I think you received the better end of the bargain."

She slipped out the door and disappeared into the darkness of the cavern.

Fenris found a set of keys on Danarius' body and freed Marian, who seemed embarrassed about her state of undress now that their lives were no longer in imminent danger. She folded her arms over her chest and crossed her thighs together, urging him to grab her a sheet or something – even Danarius' robes would do.

Under less dire circumstances, he might have been aroused by her nakedness, a sight he hadn't drunk in too long a time, but any desire he might have entertained was doused by the idea of her pain and the humiliation she had suffered. He made a conscious effort not to stare, although he was anxious to ensure that her wounds were properly tended to and would not fester.

"I'm more interested in knowing what he did to you," he said. "Your foot looks..."

"Terrible. I know," she said. "I shan't be able to dance in Orlesian heels anymore. More's the pity."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "He didn't do...anything else?"

She appeared to understand what possibilities had worried him. Danarius had always seemed to favour men over women and boys over men, but like many predators, he was omnivorous, taking more pleasure in mastery than in the person he brutalized.

"No. I don't think so. I was worried about it when I woke up, but Danarius showed...a surprising degree of professionalism. For a power-mad sadist, anyway. "

"And now he's a dead power-mad sadist. Quite an improvement, I'd say."

Fenris tore open the shelves under the marble counter, rummaging amidst the supplies. He managed to find Marian's clothes and armour, neatly bundled together, as well as a few elfroot poultices and some gauze bandages.

He brought them over to where she sat and they managed to do a creditable job of taping up each other's wounds for two people who were better at making cuts than stitching them. Their weapons and Fenris' own well-used armour were not to be found. Perhaps it was his pessimism speaking, but he suspected they'd have to conduct a tedious search before they managed to regain them. Danarius was good at hiding his treasures.

"I expect they'll be more slavers outside," he said. "Will you be ready to fight?"

She mustered up a grin. "Have you ever known me to not enjoy killing slavers? Having my daggers would help, but I am prepared to kick them to death. Or bleed on them."

He shook his head, smiling at her irreverence. He appreciated her occasional bouts of ill-timed humour. Her levity was a welcome antidote to his grim-faced solemnity and it eased the tension before a fight. "I doubt that'll do much to deter them. Keep behind me until I've killed a few. You should be able to salvage a weapon from the corpses."

"Oh, Fenris, you mustn't coddle me now. I'm quite capable of taking down a mangy slaver or two with whatever comes to hand."

She reached down, picking up Danarius' staff. "I can't manage any spells, but I expect this will do nicely for clobbering a few sots over the head."

They unlocked the door and ventured out into the fray.


	12. Revelation

The last of the freed slaves dispersed from the cavern. Some skulked away without a word of thanks or farewell, while others chattered to one another, hugging and waving their goodbyes. Fenris understood both responses to the situation, although he most identified with the ones who fled in bewilderment or fear. He didn't know where any of them would go or if they'd manage to keep their freedom long enough to find homes, but he wanted to hope, to believe that it was possible.

Marian glanced at him, the trace of a smile on her lips. "They'll manage, Fenris. They have a chance now. That was your doing."

He reached down, touching the hilt of his Sword of Mercy at his hip. It felt good to have recovered his weapons and armour again. He felt more like himself when he had his equipment – at least, the person he'd thought he was. Varania's revelation had turned all of that upside down again. Was he a victim of circumstance or one of the power-seekers whom he'd feared and despised, a fool who'd brought magic's curse down upon his own head? He didn't like this sense of complicity with the mages who'd tormented him for years. It made him a hypocrite, albeit an accidental one.

They sat down on one of the sand dunes to rest, watching the sun melt into the sea and the sky darken from vibrant streaks of orange-pink to bloody rags of crimson. The tide came rolling in, waves fluttering against the splintered hull of ship wrecked in the bay. At this time of day and season, the Wounded Coast appeared to best advantage, almost a romantic prospect, if one ignored the faint reek of dead fish and the constant threat of falling excrement from the gulls soaring overhead.

But, then, Fenris had never been a great one for the seaside. It held too many memories of slave ships, of Danarius' orders and Fog Warriors lying dead in the sand.

After the end of his struggle with Danarius, a sunset felt symbolically appropriate and Fenris entertained how this scene might play out in one of Varric's novels.

There'd be a reunion of lovers, certainly. He and Marian would kiss, bodies silhouetted by the waning sun, before they cast all the care and labour of their pasts aside and boarded a ship bound for points unknown, some distant paradise, some brave new adventure.

It was pleasant to contemplate, although it occurred to Fenris that he might not be the hero of this story. Indeed, in many respects, his credentials were more befitting a villain, one who wore a scowl more often than not and had little compunction about killing anyone who stood in his way. He'd chosen much of his own suffering and done little to seek the happiness he wanted.

Marian regarded him with a solemn expression, her concern evident. The ink from Danarius' markings was still on her skin. It was startling to see purple lines swirling over her neck, tracing up her chin to bisect her full lips and transforming into petal-like shapes as they reached her cheekbones.

"How are you faring?"

"I thought discovering my past would bring a sense of belonging, but I was wrong," he said. "Magic has tainted that too. There is nothing for me to reclaim. I am alone."

"I'm here, Fenris." Marian pressed a light hand on his shoulder. "But you must know that."

Turning, he gazed into her eyes, unsure what to do with this compassion. She _was_ there, always, when he needed her. She'd been there for so many seasons and yet he still seemed unable to find the words for what he needed to say. He stroked a hand over her cheek, gently tracing one of the markings with his fingers, hoping that she would understand that she made all the difference.

"You heard what Varania said," he said. "I wanted these. I fought for them. I feel unclean. Like this magic is not only etched into my skin, but has also stained my soul."

These words were inadequate. They did not clearly express the complicity he felt, the discomfort of the hypocrisy that he had unknowingly lived with for all these years. He had played the victim and embraced the role, but indeed, he'd been the victor and the markings had been an agonizing symbol of his triumph. He'd stepped over at least a dozen bodies to get them and done other things, deeds he didn't want to imagine, never mind, to remember. Memories, however, had a way of rising like bile in the back of his throat.

_A shadow lengthening on the wall, reaching out spider-like hands to seize him, hauling him up from the woven mat where he'd curled up to sleep. Leto knew this game and that he had to play along, if not for his mother, then for Varania, who lay sleeping little more than an arm's reach away._

_He'd always a talent for masking his thoughts, curving his mouth into a smile because that was what Danarius wanted to see when he looked at the pretty elven youth. A happy boy. A sweet boy. Affectionate. Innocent and stupid, even after they'd done everything they could to corrupt him. He knew his role in this farce and the source of his appeal. The magisters found him decorative and pleasing – his outside, at least. It made them less inclined to tear out his insides for their spells. He didn't flatter himself that they liked him or that they might be convinced to care about him, as some of the others did. When he grew older and his novelty faded, he would have to find another way to guarantee his usefulness to them. The alternative...was unpleasant. _

"_The master favours you," his mother told him, as if this were a revelation. _

_Leto knew exactly what the master favoured and that was why he made sure Varania looked dirty and unkempt, why he'd cut off her hair and made her cry, even rubbed her clothes with cloves of garlic. She thought he was cruel, that he was trying to sabotage her. _

"_You're scared he'll like me better than you," she'd said to him. "You're jealous because I could be a mage and you never, ever will. I bet that if the master liked me enough, he'd teach me how to make flames come from my hands."_

"_You're just a silly little girl," he'd replied. "And you shouldn't play with fire."_

_Varania knew that her father was a magister. That was the one thing their mother had seen fit to tell her. The rest of the circumstances she'd left to the child's imagination and Varania had filled in the blanks with romantic rubbish. One day, after she'd alluded to his father as a slave one too many times, he'd told her how generous Danarius was with his party guests – how they could borrow books from his study or extra robes from his armoire, how he was so kind, so wonderfully selfless that he'd think nothing to lending them a slave for the night, if they wished it and if they got a female with child, so much the better. _

"_More little slaves who'll grow up to serve them," he'd said. "That's your glorious noble father. A fellow too cheap to buy himself a whore."_

_He'd regretted it afterwards, when she'd run off sobbing again and reported the words back to their mother. His mother hadn't said anything to him, not a word of reprimand, just glanced at his guilty face, her grey-green eyes large and weary. _

_She'd looked down again, rubbing Varania's back. "Don't cry now. Your brother doesn't know everything about magisters, even if he pretends to. You can think something different if you wish to."_

_They were weak and so he'd had to be strong, to be the man of the household and do things that he didn't like for the sake of them all. He'd resented the females their weakness and they'd feared his strength, the weight of silence that burdened him and the upheaval might occur if he actually spoke. They understood that their little privileges – decent food, a private sleeping room, a two free hours a day for rest and leisure – had been purchased with dirty coin and yet no one would ever mention it and risk toppling the careful balance of their world. _

Marian's voice was gentle, a caress. "All I know is that you sacrificed everything to free your Mother and Varania. Perhaps it didn't work out as you'd hoped, but it was a selfless and noble act. I think you should be proud of what you did. Of who you are."

"And who am I, Marian? I only wish I knew."

While other people had identities, histories, intellectual resources to draw upon, for a long time, Fenris had thought of himself and of others as little better than objects, bodies who might do him harm or bodies who might obstruct his pursuers and allow his escape. He'd known only the instinct to survive and if necessary, to kill, and this had seemed sufficient, although he'd been vaguely aware that others had colour and richness in their lives that he was incapable of comprehending. He'd learned more of this in the time he'd spent with Marian and her circle of acquaintance, but for a long time, it took effort to cover over the hollowness of his own existence, to play the role of a person when he often still felt he had more in common with an ornate sword or a well-strung bow.

It would be beneficial to have some time to ponder his next course of action, if only to decide what to call himself now. He wasn't sure that he liked this new name – or rather, this old name that felt uncomfortable as too-tight clothes.

Leto.

His sister had given it unpleasant associations and it felt like another chain, something else to weigh him down. He wouldn't become Leto again, the boy who'd been forced to smile and scrape before the magisters in a frantic dance for his life. Fenris was scarred and sullen, plain-spoken and stoop-shouldered, without any ounce of that boy's effortless grace, but at least he had a voice and wore his own frown instead of another man's smile.

"I know you," Marian told him. "Perhaps not every detail, but the important things. I know that you're wise and you're loyal. That you're clever and your sense of humour is dryer than old bones. That you've been through things that would've driven other men mad and yet you're still capable of so much...goodness." She seemed nervous at this admission and broke the tension with a soft chuckle. "I also know that you have a gambling problem and a fiery temper and that you rival my uncle Gamlen for the coveted title of Worst Housekeeper in Kirkwall. Quite an achievement, that last one."

He cracked a smile. "It would seem you know a great deal."

"I do. And I like you. Every bit. Even I'm still not entirely certain what to call you."

"I – Marian..." He paused, trying to recover himself from tongue-tied bewilderment. "I'm Fenris. I left that other person behind long ago. I want to be...the person you know. I want..." He didn't know how to finish that sentence. He wanted so many things. Instead, he gently cupped the back of her neck in his hand, leaning forward, intending to kiss her.

She blinked, recoiling slightly as footsteps sounded on the path behind him. "Varric?"

Fenris turned, feeling a twinge of annoyance at the sudden, belated appearance of their rescue party. How inconvenient. All they'd managed to do was save them from a perfectly lovely moment.

Varric sauntered down the hill, his broad face wearing an equally wide smirk. Aveline, Sebastian and Isabella followed in his wake.

"There you are!" he said, clapping a hand against his thigh. "We've been searching every damn slaver cavern on the Coast for you two. Getting underground so much, I was starting to feel like a real dwarf. With a beard and everything."

"Oh, please. _I_ have more Stone sense than you," Isabella said.

She winked at them. "He couldn't track down a tunnel entrance to save his life. My dear departed husband would've had an easier time finding my clitoris. Not that he ever bothered conducting a search."

Marian gave an awkward laugh, standing up to greet them. "Ah, I was wondering when the cavalry was going to show up. You know, I'm quite embarrassed about letting myself get captured by that damnable magister. I don't suppose we could pretend this never happened? That I just killed the vile fellow in a timely and efficient manner?"

"You do have a reputation to keep up," Varric said. "I'll see what I can do, Champion. You're just lucky I'm a convincing liar."

Varric turned towards Fenris, assessing his face with cunning eyes that shone like coppers. "How are you doing, Broody? You must be happy now that the magister's dead. Do I even see a wee bit of a smile? With you, it's, uh, sort of hard to tell."

It occurred to him that he should be in more of a celebratory mood and yet, he felt oddly disappointed, underwhelmed. He'd expected the magister's death to change everything and yet the world had gone on just the same and here were the usual suspects from Kirkwall, standing around making the same fool jokes.

"Danarius is gone. I am...satisfied."

"It will open up a lot of possibilities for you," Aveline noted. "You won't have to hole up in that mansion anymore. If you wished, you might travel."

It was true. He might go anywhere and yet he could think of no place he'd rather be than inside his rat's nest of a mansion, drinking wine with Marian or puzzling over a book.

"Indeed. It's a possibility. One I shall consider. But for now...I'm in no great haste to depart Kirkwall."

As they trekked back towards the city, Marian struggled to keep pace, moving gingerly on her wounded foot. Despite his offers of assistance, she refused to allow him or anyone to carry her over the uneven terrain.

"You're wounded as well," she noted. "And I'm heavier than I look."

He remembered what it felt like to lift her and carry her body in his arms. She wouldn't have been a burden. "I'm rather strong, you know."

"I know. But so am I. And it's hard to tell which of us is more stubborn."

"You are stubborn," he said. "I am merely determined."

She smirked. "Determined like a mule."

Eventually, however, she acceded to leaning between his and Aveline's shoulders for occasional support while making climbs up rocky slopes. Fenris endeavoured to resist glancing at Marian when she draped an arm around him, although he was curious to see her expression and to learn what she thought of his decision to remain in Kirkwall. With tensions erupting in the city between the mages and the templars, he suspected that she might soon require his aid. Aside from that, while travel had its appeal and he would certainly enjoy the chance to see the world as a free man rather than as a fugitive, he had the notion that it might be pleasanter to be able to share those new experiences and unfamiliar places. Perhaps with someone who knew him well and had the marvellous gift of believing the best of him.

* * *

Fenris returned to the mansion, taking the time to bathe and dress himself with care, mentally preparing for what he had to do, what he'd put off for too long. He knelt by the little make-shift altar in his room and murmured a few prayers for luck, hoping that Andraste was listening and sympathetic to his plight. His lips moved when he went through the familiar petitions but, for once, he didn't care.

_Holy Mother, favour me with your blessing. Grant me the wisdom to know what is right, the grace to act upon it and the fortitude to accept suffering. _

_Gracious Bride of the Maker, hear my petition and offer me courage: to fight when the odds seem impossible, to temper all extremes with kindness, to love even without hope, to despise cruelty and injustice, calm in the assurance that the Maker is my refuge._

By the time he felt ready to go, a guard of the night watch was out, pacing the square with his lantern and he wondered if it wasn't too late and he shouldn't wait until morning.

No, he'd waited too long. He'd resolved himself. He wasn't going to give in to cowardice. The night air felt crisp and fresh, and despite his agitation, he felt a sense of pleasurable freedom, as he often did in high, open spaces.

Marian's estate was shrouded in darkness and Fenris stared ahead at the portal alcove, feeling rather intimidated by the stately door and its great brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head. He strode towards the porch, stopping at the topmost step, wondering if he'd better not prepare himself better first. It'd suddenly occurred to him that he might appear more sincere if he could offer something better than words - a gift, perhaps, a precious token that might make up for the painful gaps in his speech.

A peal of laughter dropped from above. "I don't suppose you were planning to knock."

He looked up and saw Marian standing on the balcony, leaning her elbows on the top rail. Her cheerfulness could easily be attributed to the fact she was tipsy and he suspected she was holding onto the railing partially to steady herself as she sobered up in the cool night air.

"I thought I might examine your door for a while," he deadpanned, eager to hide his embarrassment.

"It's a fascinating door. You might do well to study it."

She shifted slightly and her robe parted to reveal a tantalizing sliver of leg, her skin gleaming in the moonlight. She'd washed away most of the markings, but the dye still lingered in some places, leaving leaf-like veins snaking up calf and faint lines spiralling around her ankles. It took Marian a few moments to notice the situation with her robe and when she did, she made no attempt to correct it.

She grinned. "You aren't looking at the door."

"No."

"Has it lost its charm?"

"I've seen something more interesting."

"Have you?"

"Yes."

Taking a leap from the topmost step, Fenris landed on the window ledge, grasping the ruts in the stone wall for handholds.

Marian peered down at him, confused. "In Andraste's name, what are you doing?"

"Taking an alternate route of entry."

From the ledge, he found a higher foothold by digging his feet against an ornate wall moulding featuring flowers, fruit and vines. Fenris edged along this narrow space until he was directly under the balcony, then, springing up, he grabbed the bottom bars and clambered up, swinging his legs over the railing.

Marian smirked at him, backing up a step to offer him room to pass. It was distance that he didn't need. He was weary of having so much space between them.

"You know, I could've troubled Bodahn to unlock the door," she said.

He glanced through the window, seeing her lantern casting a soft yellow light over her room. There was an empty bottle of wine on the floor and another set out on the table. "May I come in?"

She shook her head in bemusement, wandering back into her chamber. "Now you ask. Very well. Come in. Pour us a nightcap."

Fenris sat down at the table, finding the wine and a silver decanter of ice water. He poured her a glass of ice water to help sober her up and uncorked the new bottle, which he reserved for himself.

"What? Why, you... How terribly rude." She tried to feign indignation, but it wasn't very convincing when interspersed with giggles. "That is my wine, by the way. I didn't 'borrow' it from your cellar."

Fenris took a long draught, which quickly confirmed that it wasn't Danarius' wine. The stuff Marian drank was from Ferelden and while he didn't doubt its nostalgic value, its taste left much to be desired.

"You've had enough tonight. I'd like you to remember this in the morning."

"When you've gone?" It was hard to discern whether this was a jibe or if Marian was seeking his reassurance. Her tone suggested the first of these, but her brows tilted down slightly, giving her a wounded expression.

"I'm here now. I...wished to apologize for what happened. I was foolish, thinking that my sister's intentions might be sincere. I did not expect I might be leading you into a trap. I did not imagine that you would be put in such jeopardy."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. I was glad to be there. I was glad to see Danarius get his at last."

"I hesitated. I was...fearful. As a memory, I gave Danarius more power than he'd ever wielded as a man. He ruined my past. I don't want him to affect what's to come."

"He shan't trouble you again. Not in this life or the next. You have your freedom now, Fenris. You can do anything you wish."

"Yes, I am free. Danarius is dead. Yet it doesn't feel like it should."

"You thought killing him would solve everything," she said softly. "But it doesn't."

"I suppose not. I thought that if I didn't need to fight and run to stay alive, I would finally be able to live as a free man does. But how is that? My sister is gone and I have nothing, not even an enemy."

"But maybe that just means there's nothing holding you back."

Nothing? No one? Fenris was crestfallen, having hoped that she would disagree with his assessment. Perhaps he had not done a good job of investing in his life in Kirkwall, resistant as he was to putting down roots, but he'd flattered myself that a few people might miss his taciturnity and surliness - if only because it provided them an easy target for jests.

Even if there were none to count among that number, he'd still depended on Marian to think well of him on occasion, even if when he didn't deserve it. He'd hoped that she might be tempted to hold him back from the vague possibilities of freedom, his limitless future that dropped down into emptiness, an oubliette.

"Hmm, an interesting thought. It's just difficult to overlook the stain that magic has left on my life. If I seem bitter, it's not without cause. Perhaps it is time to move forward. I just don't know where that leads. Do you?"

She hesitated, seeming to consider the invitation, absentmindedly tracing her fingers along her collarbone. Her lips curled into a nervous smile.

"Wherever it leads, I hope it means we'll stay together."

Stay together. As if they'd never parted. Those last two words warmed him and seemed to offer an island of hope amidst the chaos stirring around them. Heretofore, he had never considered solitude to be a burden, but without her eyes, her voice, her smile, he knew he would be unmoored, lost and drifting.

He smiled. "That is my hope as well." She had said enough to encourage him, but somehow, this did little to ease his anxiety. "We have never discussed what happened between us three years ago."

"You didn't want to talk about it."

"I felt like a fool," he said. "Thought it better if you hated me. I deserve no less. But it isn't better."

His throat felt dry and raw, but he forced the words out. She deserved to know the truth, even if it would not bridge the distance between them and bring her back into his arms. Even if she didn't like what he had to tell her, at least she would know that she had given him something to hope for – one of his first, surprising tastes of happiness.

"That night – I remember your touch as if it were yesterday. I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now."

Marian tilted her head to the side, hair falling forward over her cheekbone. She seemed minutely focussed on his words, as if they might mean her life or her death.

"I need to understand why you left, Fenris. Why you...kept on leaving."

He furrowed his brow, looking down at his hands, the wrinkles marking the joints of his fingers. He still didn't understand all the answers, but his confrontations with Hadriana and Danarius had made a few things clear. Buried in his past, there were indignities, violations that he was probably best not to remember... or, at least, not to fixate on in agonizing detail. He'd never known pleasure from another person's touch or a sense of intimacy and when he'd experienced it with Marian, it had been terrifying, like a disturbance of the natural order. He'd been frightened at the depths of emotion she could provoke in him and having felt such overwhelming goodness, he'd expected an equal measure of something bad and hurtful, a punishment he would deserve for being careless and letting down his guard. Yet how to say that aloud? How to make her understand, without sounding pitiful and irrevocably broken?

"I've thought about the answer a thousand times. The pain and the memories it brought up. It was too much. I was a coward. If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt."

A smile twinkled behind her eyes, one that slowly crept to the edges of her lips, teasing him. "What would you have said?"

He took a breath. _Say it. Now. No more silence._

"Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you."

Her smile widened, her hand touching his arm, fingers stroking softly over the bared skin on the inside of his wrist.

"Fenris, I forgave you long before you asked it. Not because I thought you might change your mind, but because I could not change my heart."

His breath caught in his throat and he looked down, giving a low chuckle to play it off. "As much as you might wish you could."

"I struggled valiantly. But in the end, it was always you."

Fenris sprang from his chair, annoyed that the table presented a barrier between them. Circling around the obstacle, he stooped down, grasping her face as he drew her up into his arms. "Marian, if there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side."

He kissed her, just as he had intended to on the Wounded Coast, without hesitation or regret, in the sure knowledge that at least one thing had remained unspoiled. He had believed that he was incapable of love and yet it had always been there, inside him, waiting for the right season and her touch to unlock the clenched fist of his heart. The warmth of the fireside crackled behind them as he pressed his lips to her neck, each kiss a promise. Her hands moved up to his chest and she began to strip away his armour.

* * *

Marian felt Fenris' hand stroke downward over the soft fabric of her robe, fumbling with the sash knotted at her waist and then pulling the cloth back to expose her skin, freshly scrubbed from the bath.

His eagerness brought a smile to her face and she rolled the heavy garment back from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. She moved to embrace him, but he took a slight step back, holding her at arm's distance.

"Let me...I want to look at you."

"Alright."

His eyes raked over her, seeming to drink in every detail, as if he sought to memorize the lineaments of her face and the lines of her body. Under anyone else's gaze, she might have felt self-conscious, remembering her many battle scars, but he made her feel beautiful, softer and more womanly, worthy of adoration.

At last, Fenris gave a low sigh, dropping to his knees, his lips warm against her stomach, the sandpaper-rasp of his tongue trailing down over her abdomen. He ventured lower still and she heard herself whimper as if the sound were coming from another place, another person, her eyelids fluttering at the gentleness of his mouth and the deftness of his hands. She reached down, stroking her hands through his fine, silvery hair, wanting to have him closer to her and yet not wishing this pleasure to end.

He glanced up at her, smiling as if they shared a secret. "What do you wish of me? Say it and it is done."

"Just...come here. Fenris. I want you close to me now. I want you inside me."

He stood, wrapping his long arms around her back, burying his face against her neck.

Marian loved breathing in the smell of him, the scent of leather, a faint metallic tinge of lyrium rising from the warmth of his body and something else, sandalwood or incense, she suspected, from his religious devotions. She drew him towards her bed, allowing her body to crumple back and rest against the blankets, his weight falling upon her.

Their breathing seemed to deepen and synchronize as he kissed her throat, brushed her hair back from her face. His tongue darted out to lick her nipples, before he took one of her breasts in his mouth, the soft insistence of his lips making her throb with desire.

"Please..."

When he thrust inside her, she gave a soft gasp and he glanced down at her with concern. "Did I...hurt you?"

She smiled. "No. It feels good. It's just been...a long time."

"For me, as well." Fenris shifted his hips, gently delving deeper and she bucked against him, her legs wrapping around his ass and her fingernails raking over his muscled back.

He gave a low moan, his initial caution cast off with the heat of the moment. He increased the speed of his downward strokes, gripping her legs and bending them back over her head, her good foot nearly striking the mahogany headboard.

Marian laughed. "I see you remembered that I'm flexible."

"It's one detail that was rather...difficult to forget."

She writhed under him, then, kicking her legs downward, she managed to roll over and on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. She leaned over, hair falling forward to curtain her face and kissed him hard on the lips.

"I want you to make sure you remember this."

She slid forward, the tips of her breasts brushing over his face and she could feel his breath heavy against her skin.

Fenris cupped them in his hands, fingers stroking down her stomach, running over the gentle curves of her hips and thighs, squeezing her ass, drawing her down over the length of him. "I...don't think...there's any risk...of this...slipping my mind."

She could tell he was on the very cusp and yet he managed to hold off, concentrating on finishing her before he allowed himself to slip over the brink.

Tumbling back against the mattress, she stared dazedly at the crimson canopy that draped over her four-poster bed, giving a soft growl of contentment.

He leaned his head against hers, his arm sliding around her back to embrace her.

Marian turned, admiring how the firelight danced in his soft green eyes and how they crinkled at the sides when he smiled. She knew that Fenris didn't like the way he looked, that he thought of himself as mutilated but he was one of the most beautiful people she'd ever seen. His scars, the premature silvering of his hair, the callouses on his hands and how the sun had browned and weathered his skin...she adored all these small perfections and she would not have changed a single one.

She lay in his arms, enjoying the way his hands strayed over her skin, caressing her, stroking away the tension from her muscles. It had been years since she'd felt so protected and even...cherished. He made her feel necessary, safe and valuable and that was something she could use more of in her life.

In their pillow talk, they spoke of faraway things. He told her tales of Seheron, its rain-scented forests and rolling white sands, and of his passage through the Anderfels, as a fugitive long ago, the first time he had seen true mountains.

"One day, I will take you there and we shall trek up one of the mountains. The view from above – to see the rest of the world so small – it is truly a magnificent sight. It lends one a sense of perspective."

"I would like that." If it'd been up to her, Marian would have let him whisk her away the very next morning, but there were still dire issues in Kirkwall, ones that the city's avowed Champion couldn't leave behind. Nevertheless, it would be wonderful, one day, to be able to go exploring with him and see all the places from the books they'd read together. Although she'd seen many marvels in her time, she was still, in many respects, a village girl from Fereldan, not nearly as cosmopolitan or well-travelled as many of her friends.

Indeed, when she began to tell her own stories, they were often anecdotes from Lothering or the other rural towns where she'd spent her childhood in Fereldan. They were simple recollections, memories of how she and Carver used to fish and catch frogs in the stream by Willowbrook, splashing prim Bethany as she tried to work on her lessons or how excited her mother became when it was Feast Day in Lothering and bands of minstrels and players ventured into town, merchants bringing festive wares to hawk to the crowds. She thought that Fenris might think her past dull, but he seemed to take a strange delight in mundane things and made thorough inquiries about the gruff, sensible farmfolk and her silly neighbours in Lothering who'd covered their front yard in traps, much to the bane of squirrels and pigeons.

Eventually, their murmurings ceded to more embraces and kisses and he made love to her again by the waning light of the hearth. Marian fell asleep with her head nestled against his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm in her ear.

When she awoke the next morning, she found him still asleep, a pleasant surprise. He had a snug grip around her and she didn't wish to move and risk stirring him when he looked so peaceful, so she lay quietly, listening to the soft wheeze of his breathing and the sound of birds chirping outside. Sunlight streamed in through the balcony window, stroking soft fingers over the white bed sheets and their bodies beneath them.

Fenris gave a sigh, his eyes fluttering open and she looked at him, unable to resisted smiling at his rumpled hair. They certainly had enjoyed a lovely tussle the night before and her own hair was probably a fright, matted against the pillowcase and falling in a dark tangle over her pale shoulders.

"Good morning," she murmured.

He yawned, raising his fists to his face and rubbing his eyes. "I... haven't slept like that for some time."

"Did I actually succeed in wearing you out?"

Fenris chuckled. "You might have. I'm surprised. I am usually something of an insomniac."

"You know, it may just be your sleeping arrangements at the mansion," she noted. "Sleeping on an old mattress on the floor is not precisely the ideal of comfort and gracious living."

"I assume that means you won't be accepting any invitations to sleep over," he said.

"I would. Because I'm fond of you. Provided we give those blankets a good airing."

"Yes, I suppose I could work on my housekeeping. And make a few...home improvements."

"Cleaning up the bones from the floor might be nice."

"I'm rather fond of those bones, you know. Believe it or not, I'm a sentimental soul."

She shook her head at this piece of nostalgia. It was funny to think that he might come to regard his fugitive days as a nothing more than a phase or that one day he might laugh and mock the memory of his pain. "That's what packrats always say. In any case, you _could_ hang them somewhere. As art. Or as a nice conversation piece when new acquaintances stop by for tea. That would be much better than the impression you're currently giving, which is that you live in a crypt or a dragon's lair."

"Very well, Marian. For your sake, I will endeavour to amend at least a few of my bachelor ways," Fenris said, putting on an exaggerated frown. "You know, Donnic warned me of this. It seems you women will insist on civilizing us."

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry," she teased. "It must be a terrible hardship to give up the human remains scattered in your hall..."

He gave her one of his sly smirks, leaning his elbow on the pillow. "Ah, well, you offer other compensations, I suppose. Although I will miss the lovely crypt-like ambiance of the place."

It pleased Marian to think that he might undertake renovations to the mansion, repairs that were sorely needed. She'd like to see Fenris have a proper space to call his own, since she knew that he enjoyed his independence and time for introspection. If he took better care of the mansion, she'd have an easier time petitioning for his rights to the property. Besides, it would be nice to go there and have a comfortable place to spend the night. The very sight of his nest of blankets and that lumpy mattress he'd been sleeping on for the last few years was enough to make her itchy.

"Thank you...for staying," she said. "It was nice...to wake up to you. How are you feeling?"

"Well-rested." He folded his hands behind his head, cushioning his neck. "Rather smug, as well."

"Were there any memories?"

He shook his head. "I'm done with...that sort of remembering. Not that I'll ever forget, but – I'd like to focus on making new memories now. With you. If you'll have me."

"Of course. I can think of nothing better."

He lay his head back down on the pillow, folding her into a tight embrace. When he spoke, his voice was soft and husky. "I am yours."

It was a lovely sentiment and she felt it was sincere, but it was also made her little anxious, worried that he had somehow confused the loyalty of a slave with the affections of a free man. She laid a soft kiss against his neck and then pressed another to the side of his cheek.

"That is quite a gift. You will always be your own man first, Fenris. You may be with me, but your choices are always your own."

"And I choose to be yours."

Marian felt a rush of elation, charmed by his persistence. Fenris often spent a long time in his solitary deliberations, but once he'd made up his mind about something, he rarely wavered.

"As I am yours," she whispered.

They lazed in bed for another hour, uttering few words, not wishing to break the hushed wonder of the knowledge that had passed between them. When they spoke, it was in the intimate language of lips and eyes and hands, their limbs tangling together under the sheets. A breeze drifted in from the window, gently stirring the curtains.

It was a bliss that Marian had never known and while she could not undo the tragedies of her past or save a city that seemed intent on its own ruination, she sensed that they would be one another's solace and protection from the gathering storm. Through love and shared suffering, their lives had become inextricably bound together and yet it was not captivity and she felt no loss of freedom, only the sweet assurance that she and Fenris would stand together against an uncertain future, belonging always to each other.

_- fin-_

* * *

_Author's note: _

_And that's the end! I'd like to send big thank-you out to everyone who has been kind enough to read/review this story. I love and cherish all the feedback I receive and even after a story finishes, I definitely still kept track of how people are responding to it so I can improve. So, hey, please do let me know what you think! This was lots of fun to write and I hope it was fun to read too. _

_All the characters from DA2 belong to the awesome folks at Bioware. All the proof-reading errors belong to me. ;)_

_Best wishes,_

_Fever Dream_


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